A Little Fall of Rain
by darkershade
Summary: Sequel to "Mindful of the Feelings of Others," "Elinor's Wedding," and "Strange Fits of Passion I have Known." Marianne accompanies the Colonel on a ride through Delaford. As usual, a rainstorm intervenes. Complete! Sequel to follow (will be M-rated)!
1. Diagnosis

Timeline for my fics, because apparently I have ADD and am incapable of finishing one before starting another.

"Mindful of the Feelings of Others" (Brandon's POV, 3rd person; in progress)

"Strange Fits of Passion I Have Known" (Marianne's POV, 1st person; complete)

"A Little Fall of Rain" (Marianne's POV, 3rd person; in progress)

Tentatively titled "How Blest I Am In This" (Alternating POV, 3rd person; not yet started)

"Always" (Marianne's POV, 3rd person; complete)

 **"A Little Fall of Rain"**

(If you want to listen to something to put you in the mood for this fic, I suggest "Diagnosis," by The Weakerthans)

On a bright Friday morning in October, before the weather had turned cold but just after that snap of autumn had fully made its way into the Dorsetshire atmosphere, Colonel Brandon ducked under the door frame of the parlor and found his lady visitors-Elinor, Marianne, Mrs. Dashwood, and Margaret-congregated and engaged in needlework. They all looked up at him.

"Good morning, Colonel," Mrs. Dashwood offered.

"Good morning, ladies. I have-shall I say, a proposition. As Edward is currently engaged on business at the parsonage, I have lost my morning riding partner. Would you all like to accompany me on a ride around the property? I would go alone, but as it's so fine out-"

"I would love to!" exclaimed Marianne, and tossed her needlework unceremoniously to the side. She brushed her dress down and made her way towards him.

Margaret moved to stand up as well, but her mother grabbed her hand. "Elinor cannot go, of course, because of the baby, and I need Margaret here to complete her project. Perhaps next time, Margaret?"

"Oh-yes. Perhaps next time." There was a distinct grumble in her voice.

"Oh-" Marianne looked around her and realized that she would be thrown together, again. It really was becoming quite unsettling, how often this kept happening, from having him escort her into dinner, to having him engage her in discussions of books she had been reading, sometimes even alone in his study or his library. It seemed as if, since she and her mother and sister had arrived at Delaford a week ago, there was at least an hour each day in which she spent time alone with him, but never something like this-something where the two of them would be going away from the mansion house into the relative privacy of the outdoors. Marianne wasn't sure if she was in a good state of mind to be so truly alone with him. Especially since, recently, she had begun to realize certain interesting aspects of Colonel Brandon's...character. Surely he wouldn't want to be alone with her yet again? A man of his intelligence must surely want some other company to occupy his mind more effectively.

"Just you and me, then?" he said, looking at her with some mysterious scrutiny. "Mrs. Dashwood, is that alright with you?"

"I trust my daughter will come to no harm with you, Colonel." Mrs. Dashwood smiled beatifically.

 _And this from the woman who chastised me to no end when I rode out alone with Willoughby_ , Marianne huffed inwardly.

"I shall honor your trust, of course, ma'am. Miss Dashwood?"

"Well, I-I should change into my riding habit."

"Of course. Shall I meet you at the stable when you're ready?"

"Certainly." She curtsied, as he smiled-that smile which was beginning to have the strangest effect on her and cause her to have the oddest thoughts-and stepped out of the room, excusing himself to the other company.

All at once, her mother and older sister threw their sewing aside and stood up to flutter around her. "We'll help you get ready, dearest. Follow us!" her sister exclaimed, scampering towards the stairwell as fast as her growing belly would allow.

"What?" Marianne stood dumbfounded. "I don't think I need any help apart from my chambermaid's."

"Of course you do. The Colonel oughtn't to be kept waiting," her mother replied. "Don't dally; come on!"

Marianne, all confusion, followed the two hen-like women up the stairs, into her room, and towards the armoire, where they began hunting for her habit as if it their lives depended on it. "Are you really going to wear your hair like that?" her mother asked.

"Let her wear her hair however she likes; it won't make a difference," Elinor retorted.

"That sounds like an insult! Thanks ever so much, Elinor! Does my hair look like it's been ransacked by pelicans this morning or something?"

"No, no, I just meant…" Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood exchanged a meaningful glance. "It won't matter what your hair looks like. It looks fine as it is. Beautiful, in fact. It makes you look like a Da Vinci painting. Anyone would think it marvelous."

Marianne touched her hair tentatively as she stripped off her muslin frock and raised her arms for her mother to put the habit over her head. "Marvelous?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose he'll think so, too," her mother murmured as she worked swiftly on the laces.

"He-whatever do you mean?" Marianne felt her head go fuzzy as she realized who the "he" was. "What would Colonel Brandon care about my hair for?"

Her mother and sister, who was rifling through a box of ribbons, stopped what they were doing and stared at each other. "She doesn't know." Elinor's face was a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"What doesn't _she_ know?" Marianne demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

"Oh, Marianne… sit down for a minute." Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor took seats on the end of the bed while Marianne sat in the armchair facing them. Her mother said, "Haven't you noticed anything about Colonel Brandon's...attentions?"

Marianne squinted, then flushed with sudden understanding. "You mean, you think… that the Colonel is thinking of… of…"

"I don't think the Colonel is thinking of. I know it," Elinor said, smugly crossing her arms in front of each other. "And I also know you're thinking it too."

"Don't be preposterous, Elinor. I may have been spending time with him recently, because we have seen so much of one another, but that doesn't mean…that I…"

"Marianne, you can't tear your eyes away from him," her mother chided. "Anyone can see you're smitten. And we," she gestured towards herself and Elinor, "are thrilled. No one could be so deserving of your affection as the Colonel. After all he's done for us. And for you."

"I am _not_ smitten! And anyway, he-he doesn't seem to feel anything towards me, really! I mean…" Marianne cast her memory back to the few books he had loaned her to read over the past few days; the lingering conversations over tea; the way he had kindly stepped in to turn the pages of her music when she played at his beautiful pianoforte in the evenings. These, surely, were just marks of the constancy of his friendship. He was one of the few people who hadn't acted judgmentally towards her in the past year after her flame with Willoughby fizzled. He was chivalrous and kind, and all that, but it was inconceivable that he could feel anything close to what Willoughby had demonstrably felt towards her.

"Be fair to her, mama. She doesn't see the way the Colonel looks at her when she plays."

"Yes, you are right, daughter."

"Wait, how-how does he look at me?"

Mrs. Dashwood declined to answer. She wanted to give more proof to Marianne about the Colonel's affection, but it would not be fair to the Colonel to reveal to her daughter what he had dazedly confessed to her on the night they rode together to Cleveland, about how he would have been devastated if they had lost her. Elinor jumped in, however, with: "He looks like he thinks you look good enough to eat."

"Elinor!" Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne both exclaimed.

"What? I am an old married woman now, and can say what I like; and besides, I'm so fat with child that no one will ever look at me as a beauty again, so I must live vicariously through my beautiful sister."

"Nonsense, Elinor; Edward is as attentive to you as ever," Marianne responded, sorting through what Elinor had said in her mind. Could it be that the Colonel ever thought of her as someone he could… want?

"Marianne," Elinor said, more gently. "Don't take our word for it. Go out riding with him and pay attention. Don't look for obvious things. Colonel Brandon isn't obvious about it. He's subtle. You're intelligent; you will figure it out."

"But, I-" Her mother tied her hat on her head, while Elinor inspected her boots one last time. Then they shoved her out the door.

"Go!" Elinor shouted after her with a giggle. "Hurry! He's waiting for you!"


	2. I'm Your Man

(Reader: Plug in "I'm Your Man," by Leonard Cohen.)

Marianne had been to Delaford three times now, first to celebrate the marriage of her sister, then as part of a party made up of the Middletons and Dashwoods to celebrate Easter, and to delight in the news of Elinor's pregnancy; finally now, she was here with her mother and sister to aid in Elinor's confinement, for which Brandon had kindly offered the use of the mansion house so that all four women could be comfortably situated.

During the first visit, Marianne had been too busy with preparations for the wedding to think about her own romantic history or future. She had not thought anything of it when the Colonel walked her down the aisle, the best man and the maid of honor following bride and groom according to tradition, nothing more. She had taken up his request for two dances at the wedding breakfast without thinking anything more of them than that they were pleasant, and that she had been unaware that he was capable of dancing, or that he enjoyed it. And then she had gone back to Barton with her mother and sister, snug in her assurance of lifelong spinsterhood and moral high ground.

As the months ensued before news of Elinor's pregnancy reached the Barton crowd, Marianne had begun to think about herself as a potential wife. She began to realize that passion was not enough to sustain a marriage, although a marriage without any passion at all would not be pleasant, either. The more she spoke with her mother, late at night after Margaret had adjourned to bed, the more she realized how deeply she still yearned to be loved-but by the right man, a man who would provide her with stability to complement her exuberant nature. But when there were no men available in the neighborhood, and even if there had been, no men willing to settle for Marianne's negligible status and the possible rumors of her involvement with Willoughby-well, Marianne was beginning to despair of ever finding her heart once more full up with the joys and excitements of a romance.

It was in this frame of mind that she had arrived at Delaford once again last Easter, when she had begun to think of Colonel Brandon as possibly more than just a friendly acquaintance who talked to her of books and music. She had begun to notice his physical attributes, his strength and confidence, and to put those into the context of the life he had led-possibly one of the loneliest and most heartbreaking lives she had encountered outside of the pages of a novel. She had felt at moments during her visit that perhaps he could be persuaded to be interested in her, if she pushed him in just the right way. Nothing had been said between them-he hadn't come forward, nor had he really seemed likely to-and so she had written the whole thing off as a response to her own loneliness and frustration. Still, in the six months since she had seen him, she had thought of him every day-mostly at night, when her cold bed reminded her of the first night she had slept alone at Delaford and began to think of him as someone she might want to investigate further.

As she had prepared for this third visit, she had hardly been able to hide her anxiety in the carriage on the way there. But the ease with which he had greeted her, the kindness he had bestowed on her and her family-always, not just that day-made her realize how much she valued his friendship, and how little she wanted to meddle with it by thinking of him in an untoward manner. A dignified gentleman like the Colonel deserved nothing less than respectful courtesy from her. Still it was hard, when he sat next to her at dinner or played opposite her at whist, not to focus on the curve of his lips or the set of his jaw, the particular way his cravat had been tied or the thought of his fingers buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat (yes, still flannel, but even so!). She told herself again and again- _you are just latching on to any man you see, now! You ought to leave the poor Colonel alone!_ But all week, there was always something to remind her of his manners, his style, his way of being in the world.

Now, as she walked towards the stable, she asked herself: is what Elinor and Mother said true? Is it possible that he may have recently begun to feel for me some sort of interest?

As she approached, she heard his voice-that gentle but powerful voice-speaking to someone. It dawned on her that he was speaking to one of the horses. "There, there, girl. You must be very careful today, as you will be carrying precious cargo. That's my sweet girl," he cooed, and as she entered the stable door she saw him feeding a small apple to a beautiful gray Arabian mare through the top of the stall door, his other hand stroking the horse's neck.

Marianne-her heart in her throat-called out. "Colonel Brandon."

He turned, half-smiled, and beckoned to her.

"This is Juliet. Will she do for you this morning?"

"She is… quite wonderful, actually." Marianne, fascinated, began to stroke the opposite side of the horse's head.

"I don't know how well you ride, so I thought Juliet was a safe bet. She's got some spirit, but she is quite gentle."

"Th-thank you for being so considerate."

He waved his hand dismissively. "My horse is saddled and ready. Should I tell Williston to get Juliet ready for you?"

"Yes, thanks." She smiled at him. He walked off to speak with the stable hand, and she gazed into the horse's eyes and stroked her beautiful face. How long had it been-since Norland? She was quite out of practice, but eager to ride again, particularly on such a fine specimen.

Brandon and Williston strode back presently, Brandon releasing Juliet from her stall while Williston hefted the saddle over her back. "This side saddle hasn't been used in at least fifteen years, has it, master?" Williston asked, fastening the straps.

"Let's not spend too much time thinking about how long it's been since we've had women at Delaford, Williston-it isn't exactly flattering for me," the Colonel answered with a laugh. Marianne wondered about the last person to use the side saddle.

"Was this your mother's? Or-"

"Eliza's. My mother passed away when I was a boy. Eliza used this one, but pretty infrequently. She had a delicate constitution, and didn't ride very often." Marianne frowned to herself to think of how elegant, frail, and feminine such a lady must have been. She suddenly felt big and awkward. "Which would have been a shame, had we married," the Colonel finished, "because I quite like riding." He offered her his hand and helped her into the saddle.

"I'll bring Othello around for you, master," Williston said, and disappeared for a minute.

"Where shall we go today?" Marianne asked.

"Erm, if you're willing, I thought we'd take the circuit I usually ride with Mr. Ferrars. We'll go east for a bit, past the lake, then turn south and west again and ride along the edge of the wood. It's a few miles, and we'll get to see the colors starting to turn on the trees. We'll ride past the back sides of the nearest farms on the way back."

"Perfect," she replied. A beautiful black stallion then emerged from a stall at the opposite end of the stable, led by Williston. Marianne's breath caught in her throat. "Oh, Colonel! He's exquisite!"

"You know horses?" he glanced at her as he took the reins.

"Not well...but I know beauty when I see it," she said. She was about to say something else but was distracted by the sight of the Colonel lifting himself over the saddle and finding his seat. It almost appeared as if he had floated onto his mount. She had never seen such grace. "Oh…" she whispered, then caught herself, hoping the Colonel hadn't seen her ogling him.

They rode on in silence for a while, just enjoying the nice weather and the pleasures unique to riding-the feel of the strong, compliant, friendly beast beneath you, working in harmony with you. After a while, Marianne realized she had been staring at the Colonel the whole time-luckily, he was riding a little ahead. "I wish I could do that," she thought-then realizing she had spoken aloud. He slowed Othello down and came even with her.

"What's that?"

"Nothing-it's just-I was just thinking how much easier it must be to ride astride."

"You think so?"

"Well, you-you make it look easy." She felt her face grow a bit hot.

The Colonel bowed his head humbly, but she could see a flush of pleasure touch his cheeks. "In the East India Company, if you can't ride well, they chuck you out," he offered.

"Really?"

"Probably." His eyes smiled at her, though the rest of his countenance was blank.

"It's just-it seems like you would have more control over the horse. That you can go faster."

"That's true. And it is certainly safer. I've heard of at least two deaths in the past year, ladies who were thrown while riding." He paused. "Would you like to learn to ride astride?"

"Oh! I-that sounds-certainly that wouldn't be proper." But from the minute Brandon had said it, she knew she wanted it eagerly.

He raised an eyebrow. "No, perhaps not. Your mother would never forgive me."

"She wouldn't have to know!" Marianne exclaimed without thinking.

At that, Brandon laughed, and it was a full laugh, loud and deep, and it shook Marianne to the core. "So you would like to learn?" he asked, a smile still in his voice.

Marianne blushed even deeper. "How would I? I mean, what would I even wear?"

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Breeches, I suppose."

Marianne looked aghast at him. "Impropriety at its height!"

"Practicality at its height," he countered. "You ladies and your gowns and habits and fine frocks of all kinds-you hobble yourselves. The day ladies begin wearing breeches is the day women and men will finally be something closer to equal in this world. They do it in the East."

"They do?"

"Well, yes. In some places. Poor example, though. They aren't exactly equal in the East, either. But at least they have freedom of movement, to a degree."

"You make it sound as if we wear gowns because we like it. We do it to please you lot."

"To please men?"

"Yes. We must wear the right gowns, the right hairstyles, the right shoes, the right bonnets-because if we don't, men won't find us fetching and interesting, and above all, they'll think us plain and poor, and won't want anything to do with us. And then where will we be?" She spoke in a jesting tone, but there was a tinge of bitterness in her voice-after all, was this not exactly the position she found herself in in society at this very moment?

"What you women don't understand is that most men don't remember what you wear, can't name the type of bonnet or the hairstyle, and would be just as happy with you if you were wearing a peasant's frock, as long as you are kind and faithful to us."

"Surely you don't speak for most men. I have known several men who would contradict you whole-heartedly, my brother John foremost of the party. Perhaps you only speak for yourself."

He thoughtfully replied, "Perhaps I do." Lost in their own reflections, they rode on for another five minutes in the quiet splendor of the day, when they finally arrived at the lake and saw the birds swooping down, taking their last drinks of English water before flying south to avoid the cold weather.

"Magnificent!" Marianne breathed.

"Yes." The Colonel drew Othello to a stop, and Marianne did the same with Juliet, and they paused, side by side, to look at the beauties of nature for a minute. Suddenly the Colonel began to dismount.

"Where are you going?" Marianne asked.

"Nowhere. Come." He reached up to help her dismount as well. He didn't let go of her arm, but instead walked her over to the side of his own horse. "Want to try?"

"What, now?" she sputtered

"Yes! If you want to."

"I-but I'm not dressed for it!" She gestured to her full skirt.

"You just said you wouldn't wear breeches anyway, would you? Besides, I'm not going to be looking at your ankles, if that's what you're worried about. It's up to you."

Marianne thought to herself that she might actually consider his plan to wear breeches, as the only thing between her legs and the Colonel's eyes would be a length of dubiously ample fabric from her skirt, and a pair of thankfully-high riding boots. "You'd better not look," she ordered, pointing a finger up at his face. Was that a smirk he was giving her? "Now, how do I do this?" She placed her foot in the stirrup, at his direction, and then struggled for a moment to balance herself well enough to get her other leg up and over. This took quite some time, and it was made more difficult for Marianne by the fact that she was now very close to the Colonel, with the best opportunity she'd ever had to observe how strong his arms and back were, as she had to lean on him so completely for help. In fact, she felt like she was practically manhandling him. But he never once complained. That was at least something.

Finally she was astride the stallion, her hands firmly grasping the pommel, terrified that she would fall, but nonetheless thrilled at the power she felt here. She did feel a bit of a breeze on her partially bare legs. She cast about for the Colonel, who had his back turned to her, now leading Juliet to the lake for a drink of water. "Colonel?"

"I'm not looking!" he waved back to her. "How does it feel?"

"Well, it's somewhat terrifying-I don't know how to make him move!"

"Don't try that now. Just get used to being up there. You need to learn how to use your thighs and calves and apply pressure to guide him, when you're ready to move with him. He won't go anywhere now. Will you, Othello?" Brandon looked back into the horse's eyes, carefully avoiding looking at her, and Marianne could have sworn that the horse snuffled in agreement. She ignored the way her heart raced when he referenced her calves and thighs. He had never spoken to her like this, in front of other people or in the confines of his house, even when they were briefly alone together. She couldn't put her finger on it-but suddenly it dawned on her that he wasn't speaking to her today the way a gentleman typically spoke to a lady. He was speaking to her like-like a friend, like maybe someone who had served in the army with him. Like an equal. _Not like someone he wants to take to wife, anyway. Take that, Elinor and Mama_ , she thought. And her heart flip-flopped at the realization.

Brandon sat down on the ground, his back to her, quietly watching the birds. There were a few clouds gathering in the horizon, marring the perfection of the October sky, but they were far enough in the distance that Marianne didn't worry about them spoiling her ride. "What does it feel like? When you're riding as fast as you can go?"

"I guess it feels a bit like flying," he replied, tilting his head in her direction. "Except when it's a long ride; then it feels like your back will give out completely."

"When you rode to fetch my mother...when I was sick at Cleveland…You must have ridden for hours!"

"Ah, but then I was on a mission. I didn't notice."

"It must have been such a long ride-such a long night."

"Yes, well. That was a long time ago."

"I'm not sure I ever understood your part in that night. How much you did for my family."

"It was my pleasure to be of assistance. You all had been excessively kind and welcoming to me, at Barton." Holding on to Juliet's reins with one hand, he picked up a few pebbles and idly began to skip them across the water. "Just let me know when you're ready to come down," he said. He looked so calm, so at home-the master of his domain, quite literally-and Marianne realized she could have watched him for hours without tiring. But soon, her muscles that were unused to the position began screaming for relief, and she had to tell the Colonel to help her. "Still not looking!" he said, as he walked back to her and offered her his support as she dismounted, most of her weight collapsing into him at the last. His eyes, in truth, never left her face. It was admittedly depressing how desperately he didn't want to look at her legs. She wondered if it was because he preferred delicate, trim women, like she presumed Eliza must have been. Maybe he had even harbored feelings for her lithe sister, before she married! If so, what a fresh tragedy, to have her so close, and staying in his home currently, married to someone else! Poor Colonel! But she had never seen him look in a desirous way at Elinor, either.

She remained in his arms for a moment-just to catch her balance, of course-and glanced up at his face. It couldn't be true, what Elinor had said about the way the Colonel looked at her. Her eyes met his, searching. It did seem-only for a moment, just as she met his gaze-that he looked...hungry. As if he needed something that was unavailable to him. Maybe he was just literally hungry-it was nearly time for luncheon. They would have to make their way back to the mansion soon if they wanted to have lunch when it was laid out. One of his eyebrows raised, and it broke the spell. "Miss Dashwood? Are you ready to continue our ride?"

"Yes, of course." He helped her into her own saddle, and the two continued towards the gold-and-orange dotted trees that bordered his property to the south. He pointed out several landmarks to her along the way, and they carried on an easy conversation about the land, the place where he had grown up. "Ah, there's the tree I used to climb," he remarked, or "That's where I skinned my knee so badly, chasing after Williston when we were both children, that my mother thought I would bleed out," or "That's where my brother, Eliza, and I used to go digging for buried treasure."

"Did you find any?"

"Two worms, once. We used them for fishing."

"It certainly seems as if you were happy here, as a child."

"My early youth, before my mother died, was a joyful one. And my young adulthood-with the exception of the time I spent with Eliza-was not so joyful. A lot changed after my mother died."

"I feel the same about my father's death. It seemed for a while as if everything had completely fallen apart."

The Colonel seemed to weigh his words before responding. "How do you feel about your life now?"

"I feel…" Marianne chose her own words carefully. "I feel as if perhaps everything has happened for a reason. If we had not been forced to move to Barton, for instance, we never would have met the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings. Or you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You made it possible for Elinor and Edward to marry. And…" _And what, Marianne? Where are you going with this doltish train of thought?_ "And for me to have such a devoted friend."

He didn't answer her for a while. Of course, what she said had been stupid. Then he said, "You also wouldn't have met John Willoughby."

"No, I wouldn't have." She turned to meet his gaze again, which was inscrutable. "But I think I needed for that to happen."

He snorted. "No one needs to have met John Willoughby."

"If Eliza hadn't met him, she wouldn't have borne Charity. And Charity is such a lovely child. And I...I needed to experience that kind of short-lived passion, I suppose. To let me know that passion isn't all it's cracked up to be." She sighed.

"There is more than one type of passion," he mumbled. By this time they had circled back around to the side of the property that bordered the farms of the Everetts and Johnsons, which Brandon showed her. "And through there, about a mile up, is Eliza's cottage, if you remember. Do you have your bearings?"

"I think so." Marianne oriented herself and pictured where she was in relation to the rest of the property. "Do you think we could visit her and the baby?"

"I hadn't planned to call on her today… but I think she would like that very much. She is eager to see you Dashwoods."

"It wouldn't be an imposition?"

"I cannot answer for her, but I think not."

"Shall we, then? Oh, but you must be hungry for your luncheon."

"I daresay we can take refreshment with Eliza."

So Brandon led the way through the narrow dirt road that separated the Everett and Johnson farms, and together they made their way towards Eliza's home. The clouds had thickened slightly in the horizon.


	3. Tupelo Honey

"Tupelo Honey," by Van Morrison

 _Note to readers: If you have not read "Mindful of the Feelings of Others" or "Elinor's wedding," this is where you may start to get confused. Some characters make a reappearance, and some moments from these stories are referenced. "Mindful" is rated "M" for some mature language and imagery, though, so be warned._

They tied the reins of the horses to a fence post at the edge of Eliza's small patch of lawn, and then Brandon helped Marianne dismount. Again, she noticed how gentle he was, how calm. _True love cannot possibly be so calm. I am sure he feels nothing for me_ , she chided herself. _Stop worrying about it. He's too wise and mature to be interested in you, so do not flatter yourself._

He offered her his arm, and together they made their way to Eliza's door. Marianne noticed how well-kept her house was, no doubt thanks to Brandon's care. She had it from the chambermaid he had secured for the Dashwood women during their stay, Bess, that Brandon was not only a caring master to his own servants, but also a generous landlord, soft-hearted but still well-respected. Yet more food for thought.

A dark-skinned man in a servant's uniform opened the door. "Mr. Bhatt!" Brandon reached out and shook hands with the man. That wasn't normal, was it? "Have you settled in well?"

"I have, indeed, as has Mrs. Bhatt. We are grateful, again, for the invitation to come here and work for Miss Eliza. Mrs. Bhatt had quite taken to the girl in London. Your generosity in having us come here is so very appreciated."

"On the contrary-I know it was an imposition to you. You must miss Anders Grove. And you must pine for your son a great deal-I know you had more of an opportunity to visit him there."

"Well, we thought we could do more good here. Our son is taking a wife soon, and she won't want us so close, meddling in their affairs."

Marianne followed this interchange with interest, not knowing what was happening. "Miss Dashwood, this is Mr. Bhatt. He is serving as Miss Williams' butler, and his wife as housekeeper."

"Oh-how do you do?" Marianne asked. She was at a loss for a second; then, feeling that this was someone Brandon respected-she gathered-more as an equal than as an underling, she curtsied.

"This is Miss Marianne Dashwood, sister of Mrs. Ferrars. She took an interest in riding out today, and wanted to call on Miss Williams."

"I shall inform you of her visit. Mrs. Bhatt will be delighted. She fried samosas this morning and we have been eating our fill, but there are so many!"

Marianne and her escort stepped into the foyer, and the scent hit Marianne's nose immediately. The whole house smelled of...spices. Which ones, she didn't know, nor could she even guess. But it made her mouth water. She heard voices, and immediately following them, a thudding of feet from a nearby room grew closer and closer, until a tiny, dark-curled child suddenly crashed into Brandon's knees and threw her arms around him, squealing delightedly as she nearly knocked him over. "Bamba!" the child screamed in delight.

"Is that Bamba?" a familiar voice called, and Eliza's form emerged from the same direction as her child. Each time Marianne had seen her in the past, Eliza had been clad in a flattering gown, her golden hair immaculately dressed, and her bearing proper as befit polite society. Today, Marianne nearly gasped to see her in a man's shirt, tailored to fit her, with an unbuttoned waistcoat and-of all things-trousers! Her hair she wore long, tied back with a single ribbon. She carried a stuffed tiger under one arm, and her feet were bare.

The smile left Eliza's face when she saw Marianne there. "Oh, dear, Miss Dashwood! I was not expecting company. Please, let me change clothes."

"Oh, no, Miss Williams! That is to say-you needn't if you don't wish to. We aren't...you needn't do anything special."

"All the same, I'm embarrassed. I've been chasing after the baby all morning, and I find that skirts make it harder to do so! But if I had known you were coming-"

"Actually, I am glad. I was just speaking to the Colonel about trousers, and he has a theory that-"

"Oh, his Breeches for Equality theory. I've heard it. I think there's more to equality than clothing, but perhaps it's a start, at least. They're so much more comfortable. You've converted another one, Bamba," Eliza directed to the Colonel, who was at present squatted down to baby Charity's eye level, having a very serious conversation with her in which he was nodding his head vigorously, and she was shaking her head and giggling. Suddenly, he picked her up and swooped her over his head, causing her laughter to become shrieks of glee. He hadn't heard a word the two women said.

"Bamba?" Marianne asked Eliza, raising an eyebrow.

"She can't say Colonel Brandon yet. Thus, Bamba."

"Ah."

"Colonel," Eliza said to him as he hefted Charity into the air again.

"Yes, Miss Williams!"

"You must tell Charity a Raja story. I have been trying to tell her one all morning, but she keeps fighting me about it, because she says you tell them better."

"I'd be most obliged to tell you a Raja story, Miss Charity," he said in a mock-serious tone to the little girl, putting her down. "Can you please tell me where I can find the tiger in question?"

"Mummy has." Charity pointed.

"Ah, yes. Mummy, may I request a private interlude with Miss Charity and Mr. Raja?"

Eliza laughed. "Of course, Bamba. Here you go." She tossed the plush toy underhand to the Colonel, who caught it neatly.

"Ladies, if you will excuse us, we shall be in the drawing room." The Colonel bowed elaborately, tiger in hand, and scooped up Charity with his other arm. Her laughs resounded down the short hallway as they made their exit. Marianne suddenly felt her chest constrict achingly.

"Miss Dashwood, would you like to take refreshment with me? I'm sure we can find something to your liking, and I do believe it is lunchtime."

"I'd love to. Something smells...I can't describe it. It smells wonderful."

"Oh, that-ever since Mrs. Bhatt came to live here, she's been cooking her food for us all. It's-well, I like it a great deal, and Colonel Brandon prefers it to nearly everything else, but when Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars visited I believe they became ill afterwards. So we usually keep some things around the kitchen in case we have outside company. Which is rare."

"I'd like to try...whatever you like. If there's something Indian. I've never had it before."

"Well, we're full up on samosas. I don't think they will hurt you. Please, help us eat them. Mrs. Bhatt has gone so insane with frying today, I'm thinking of calling her Mrs. Batty."

"Alright," Marianne replied, and followed Eliza towards the back of the house where the kitchen could be located by the increasingly strong scent of spice. Eliza, clearly, was not one to be waited on by servants.

"Mrs. Bhatt," she said to the black-haired woman wearing a strange bright orange garment, standing over a steaming pan, scooping a pastry of some sort onto a plate that was already laden. "If you don't stop making those things, we'll run out of room in the house for us to live."

"Nonsense, Eliza, I am trying to use up all these nice potatoes before they spoil. You eat. I make." She turned around and only then saw Marianne standing there. "Oh. Hello, ma'am." She curtsied, but it seemed out of place on such a woman-Marianne thought she looked like the kind of woman who ought to be curtsied to, instead. Such deference was wrong coming from such a regal personage.

"Mrs. Bhatt, this is Miss Dashwood. She is a particular friend of the Colonel's."

"Ah, yes. Miss Marianne Dashwood. I have heard of you." The older woman smiled brightly. "We are so glad you have come to Delaford." Marianne smiled back, grateful for the warm welcome though she was confused by the strange customs here and feeling a little backwards (and to think, she used to believe that she was forward-thinking for reading some newish poetry and riding around in a carriage with a single man; meanwhile here at Delaford, women wore breeches and trousers, rode astride, and made friends with Orientals, while men played with babies in the drawing room).

Eliza commandeered a plate of fried things and a small jar of something that looked like marmalade, along with some cutlery and napkins, and suggested that they take their makeshift lunch in the garden, it being so fine out. Mrs. Bhatt brought them a pot of tea and two cups on a tray as they settled down. Marianne daintily cut into a buttery samosa with her fork and knife and took a small bite, and felt her world shift a little. Her eyes brightened.

"Good, hmm? It's better if you put a little chutney, like so-" She copied Eliza and spread the jam-looking substance onto her next forkful, and her taste buds exploded with flavor.

"My God! What have I been doing with my life before now?"

"Eating English food, apparently."

"This could change everything. Mrs. Bhatt should open up a restaurant in town."

Eliza laughed. "I think she's perfectly happy just cooking for an appreciative audience here. I don't know many other people in England who would be quite so adventurous."

"So," Marianne began, finishing the first samosa and reaching for another hungrily. "How do you and Colonel Brandon know the-the Bhatts? He met them in India, I suppose?"

"He did. There was some skirmish over land that Bhatt's family owned, and his regiment was slated to defend it to protect the trading interests of the Company, and Bhatt himself offered his services to the regiment as a trained soldier. They grew tea. This tea, in fact." She took a sip, as did Marianne.

"I've noticed that the tea at Delaford is better than nearly everywhere else."

"Yes, well. Bhatt was a young man, only a few years older than the Colonel was, and the third son of the family-much like Brandon, not really a high priority in the eyes of his family. Colonel Brandon, having known what it was like, being a second son himself, befriended him and took an interest in his affairs. And when the Colonel's brother passed" (Eliza's nostrils flared angrily at the thought of this brother, who had helped cause her mother's ruination), "he saw an opportunity for Bhatt to get out of a situation in which he was not happy. He offered him a position as a domestic in one of the properties he had newly inherited, with the understanding that it would not really be occupied, and that he would be able to raise a family-Bhatt had just found a wife, you see-away from the land that had never really felt like home to him. His family acquiesced, since they felt they owed Brandon for his help defending their land. So they lived in his house in Greenwich for a long time, and raised a son, and the Colonel saw to his education. He's a clerk now in London, about to marry someone, I think an American. I-well, truth be told, I fancied him when I was a girl! But it never would have worked. I was too shy for him, then, and now I'm too wild for him. And also, he was Indian, and that would have scandalized everyone beyond everything. Ha! To think, I used to be afraid of causing scandal."

Marianne raised her eyebrows in surprise. Eliza's revelations were so fascinating, and she found herself very glad to have met this woman so near herself in age, so similar to her in some experiences, and yet different in so many ways. She was also astounded by yet another story of Colonel Brandon's generosity, his capacity for true friendship and warmth; she had also never really thought about him as a military man-what that had meant in his life. He had fought in battles-actual battles! before she had taken her first steps. And he had lived a whole world away, in a land she had only ever seen in Margaret's favourite picture books, and had God knew how many adventures. And had met God knew how many beautiful women.

"He's very good with Charity," she said aloud, realizing after she said it that Eliza would never have been able to follow her train of thought. "The Colonel, I mean."

"Oh, yes. I think she loves him more than she loves anyone else. You see, she has to mind me all the time, but he is so indulgent with her that it's naught but pleasure when _he's_ here." Eliza grinned into her tea.

"And he-he raised you as well, in a way, didn't he?"

"He couldn't do everything he wanted to. But yes, he did his best. He was so young. And...and unmarried. But he was a better father than most to me, nonetheless. I was lucky." She smiled warmly, lost in memory.

Marianne thought back to her own father, who had been so good, so loving, who had taken an interest in her education, in her development as a person beyond simply ascertaining her marriagability. She smiled, too. "Yes. It seems that, all things considered, you were quite lucky."

"Oh, don't let me forget-I have a book I'd like you to read. _The Pleasures of Hope_. It's new-the Colonel brought it for me the last time he was in London. You'll like it."

"Oh, good! Is it poetry or prose?"

"Poetry."

Marianne clapped her hands in excitement. "That new book smell-"

"It truly is the best smell. Except perhaps for the smell of old books." Marianne nodded in agreement. "You've seen the library at Delaford? Dreamy, isn't it? Most of the collection there was purchased by him. I take it his father wasn't much for books."

"Oh, yes. I think I could really live there," Marianne said, without thinking. Then she realized the implications of what she had said. She turned crimson. "I mean that I should like to have a library very much like it one day."

"Ah." Eliza looked at her across the table, and Marianne felt for a moment that she was being analyzed. Then the feeling subsided. "More tea?"

Eliza poured, and Marianne said, "He must have loved your mother very much, to take such good care of you."

"He did. For a long time."

"It seems as though he still loves her, don't you think? To honor her memory so."

Eliza opened her mouth, then closed it and thought for a moment. "I think he loves me, and Charity, for ourselves. We have become family-strange though it may seem, and despite all the ways in which it ought not to be. I am his former beloved's daughter, by some other man whom we neither of us ever met. Charity is Willoughby's, and I have never known him to loathe anyone like he loathes Willoughby. He ought to hate us both, but he is incapable of that. We are the vestiges, the reminders of my mother that are still his to care for, and he loves us. Beyond that, I think he has moved on with his life-and his heart. He knows my mother would not have wanted him to live out his life in loneliness."

"Oh-then he has expressed an interest in marrying again?" Marianne studied her tea very carefully. When she looked up at Eliza's pregnant pause, it looked like the woman across the table was about to burst.

"Miss Dashwood-surely, you-you cannot fail to see-"

"Did you save some samosas for us?" came the Colonel's voice from the house. He had just opened the door into the garden, Charity on his hip, Raja the tiger in her hand. He set the small child on the ground, her curls bouncing as he did so, and she climbed up into a chair knees first, thrust a fist into the plate of pastries, and promptly stuffed half of one into her tiny mouth.

"Charity! Manners!" her mother exclaimed. "Ladylike bites, please. And take a napkin." She handed a napkin to the Colonel, who tied it around the child's neck like a bib. Then he reached for a samosa himself. Mrs. Bhatt mysteriously appeared with a fresh pot and another teacup for him, and poured his tea herself.

"Thank you," he said, taking the tea and sipping.

"Miss Dashwood, I apologize for the delay in our plans. I hope you have been entertained in my absence."

"Oh, yes. Eliza has been saying some interesting things, about the Bhatts, and...about you." She noticed the look that passed between them-it looked significant, but she didn't know what it meant.

"Nothing incriminating, I hope," he replied, his eyebrows raised in Eliza's direction.

"No, just...talking about history," Marianne answered.

"Ah, history. Fascinating subject."

"How was your story time, Colonel?" Eliza asked.

"Wonderful, as usual. Charity is a much more docile listener than you were. You asked too many questions. I have to embellish far fewer details with this one."

"Miss Dashwood, Colonel Brandon used to tell me stories about the adventures of Raja, the plush tiger, when I was small; and now he tells them to Charity. Which story did she get today?"

"The one about the battle against the monkey army."

"Did you do the monkey voices?"

"Of course I did the monkey voices."

Eliza grinned. Marianne asked, "Would you please do the monkey voices for us? I've never heard the monkey voices."

"Miss Dashwood, unless you suddenly transmogrify into a two-year-old before my very eyes, you will not be hearing the monkey voices today. They are reserved for only the most appreciative of audiences," he explained, ruffling Charity's hair. Charity raised butter-covered fingers and tried to slap Brandon's hand away. Marianne laughed, delighted at the display of tenderness, and the Colonel laughed to see her laughing.

"Maybe if Miss Dashwood had a child of her own someday, you could do the monkey voices in her hearing," Eliza said primly. She sipped her tea. Brandon and Marianne both grew quiet. Brandon cleared his throat. Marianne looked around at anything, everything, finally alighting her eyes on the skyline, which was darkening to a frightening shade of purple along the edges.

"Oh dear," she said.

The Colonel followed her gaze. "Oh, dear me. But it was so fine out. We'd best take our leave now, before the downpour starts."

"But I'm quite certain it will not rain. Do you think?"

"Mademoiselle," he quipped in a droll voice, "you have a reputation for being dead wrong about the weather. Perhaps we ought not chance it?"

She nodded in agreement, laughing at herself. It was a risky jest he had made, after her sickness the year before; it made her heart glad to hear him say it, though, because it meant he was not treading lightly around her. Colonel Brandon took his leave of Charity, who was clinging to his leg and begging him not to go, while Marianne daintily asked if she could be directed to the privy before taking her leave. Finally they were saddled up, and Eliza walked them out to the road.

"Miss Williams, you know I had planned to visit you tomorrow, not today-Mr. Ferrars and I shot some nice fowl yesterday but it hadn't been cleaned yet. I'd planned to bring you a couple of birds for your supper."

"That's alright. I'm always glad of your visits. Particularly the surprise ones. And do bring Miss Dashwood back to see us soon. And-and Miss Margaret, as well. In fact, here-" she supplied a parcel wrapped in cloth, and stuck it in Brandon's saddlebag. "Some samosas and chutney for her, since you said she seems to be fascinated by the East."

"Oh, thanks! She will be thrilled!" Marianne exclaimed, causing Eliza to smile.

"Ride safely, and come back soon!" Eliza called, and they were off.

Marianne didn't know what to say to the Colonel, her head was so full, but she tried her best at small talk. Her esteem for the man who rode next to her, quietly in control of his horse, formidable in his intellect, impeccable in his manners-and yet who apparently possessed aspects of his character so deep that they required ages and ages to unveil-had grown so much in the past day alone, and it had already been very high to begin with. She compared her feelings toward him with how she had responded to Willoughby's entrance in her life. Willoughby had been easy to love, his manner so open and unguarded, his laughter coming naturally. He was all laughter, but had very little substance beneath the surface. But the Colonel? He was...different.

Her mind didn't know what love meant, really, or she would have recognized its signs apparent in her own feelings, not to mention his actions. To her mind, as yet, love meant sweeping devotion, gut-wrenching pains and blissful pleasures. It was sublime-like standing on a hill and watching a thunderstorm form in the distance, and feeling how close you were to death, and God. Like a Wordsworth poem.

She would learn, in time, that restraint, calm, and quiet strength are but the opposite side of the coin of true passion-the kind that renders you weak of limb, tongue-tied, and gasping for breath, aching, writhing, needing. True passion, when restrained, built up to a fever pitch, and then unleashed-true passion would leave her shattered.

Marianne's head tried to sort through all she knew about Colonel Brandon, and all she thought she knew, as the pair of them chatted about Charity and Eliza, about the Ferrars couple, about Margaret's latest plans for adventure, which were becoming more and more sophisticated and believable as she aged.

Not ten minutes passed on their way to the mansion house before Marianne felt the first raindrop on her cheek.


	4. Falling Slowly

"Falling Slowly," by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

"Bollocks," Marianne thought she heard Brandon mutter under his breath, though he gave no sign of agitation. More loudly he said, "Miss Dashwood, I fear we're to be caught in this."

"It would seem so."

"If you'll permit me to change the plan, if we ride just a couple of minutes in the opposite direction, there is a small pavilion a little distance from here. It's in poor repair, I fear, but it will shelter us. I cannot have you drenched again."

She nodded, and followed him. He rode more slowly than he probably should have, given the fat, persistent raindrops that kept falling on their heads and bodies and the deluge they both knew was coming. But she couldn't have followed at an appropriate pace, so she was glad he went at the speed he did.

At last they arrived at the pavilion in question, and it was lucky they did, because as soon as Marianne had been handed down off her horse and marched under the shelter, the bottom dropped out of the sky. Marianne watched helplessly from her perch as the Colonel tied the horses' reins to thick tree branches, allowing them to take shelter in the nearest copse of trees, then unfastened a saddlebag and carried it, running, to the shelter himself. He was dripping and breathing heavily.

"My sincere apologies, Miss Dashwood. I will have you back at the house as soon as this lightens up. It will not be long, I wager. These autumn storms sometimes go as quickly as they come."

He did his best to wring out the water from his coat while he still wore it, and Marianne noticed that he shivered as he did so. "Colonel Brandon-you ought not stay in that coat. You'll catch cold."

"It is nothing," he replied. But as they stood there in silence, watching the rain as they each leaned against a column, he kept shivering. "Actually, are you sure it-you wouldn't be offended if I-"

"Please take off your coat, Colonel. Your health is more important than propriety."

"Thank you." He blushed deeply as he stripped down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Marianne's lips parted in surprise as she saw, through the thin fabric of his shirt, the hard, lean muscles in his arms. She said nothing, and looked at the rain again.

"Are you warm enough? I took the liberty of bringing my saddlebag, which has a blanket and some provisions."

"I am alright for now." She fixed her shawl around her shoulders more comfortably, and smiled. He smiled back. Her heart skipped a beat. He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and slid down the column to sit on the bare floor, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. She slid down as well, arranging her skirts so they would cover her legs fully when she crossed her legs. "Delaford is a beautiful and surprising place, Colonel."

"I am glad you like it."

"I do, very much."

"You are always welcome here."

She studied him. "I thank you, for it is a true joy to me to be able to visit my sister. And her own house will be full soon!"

"It is good to have her so close, as well. She and Mr. Ferrars have become true friends to me." He smiled.

"No doubt thanks to your kindness to them."

"I think their own worthiness and kindness have far outweighed anything I could have done for them," he replied modestly.

"And if I were to...to marry… would I still be welcome in your home?" She didn't know why she asked the question, but she knew she needed to hear the answer. His facial expression didn't change-or did a muscle in his jaw move slightly? She couldn't be sure.

He cleared his throat, and replied, "Of course. You and your...your husband, whomever he may be, would be welcome as my guests. As often as you would wish to visit here."

True love would have said no. True love would have cried out in jealous agony. The Colonel did not love her. She was now sure of it. And she was...disappointed. "Perhaps you shall marry as well, and your new wife will not like us Dashwoods hanging around."

"That will not happen."

"You'll not marry?"

"I think not."

"Whyever not?"

"Because… I am a confirmed old bachelor, after all. And besides, what woman would want to live in a place where there were more books than fine china and linen? I could never make a woman happy as a wife," he smiled wryly. _That sounds ideal to me_ , she thought.

"May I ask who is to inherit Delaford? You do not have an heir."

"It will go to one of my sister's children. I have a sister, Constance, who lives in Avignon with her family. She has three boys."

"Do you like them?"

"I've never met them. My sister is… different from me. She shares a lot in common with my brother, and my father, in terms of how she views the world and one's duties in it. So I think her boys are probably like her as well."

"So you... you are accepting of this?"

He shrugged. "There's not much I can do. The property is entailed through the male line, and I have no way of breaking the entailment. If my father and brother hadn't been so blinded by money and tradition, they could have done it. As it stands, the only thing I worry about is that I'll live long enough to see Eliza and Charity married off, so if and when I pass on and my nephew inherits, they are not thrown out and left homeless. I have something set aside to provide for them, don't worry- they will not starve. But I'm not sure it will be enough-prices go up and down so."

"You think Eliza will be able to marry? That someone will choose to marry her, knowing her-her past?"

"I think the more important question is whether or not she will want to marry. Her heart was completely broken by-well, you know very well by whom."

"Willoughby," Marianne breathed, and noticed that her breath came out visibly in the increasingly cold air, like smoke.

"Yes. She has told me that she will marry if she must, if I can help her find someone suitable for her and willing to take her as she is, but I'm not-I'm not sure I have the heart. She says she is disillusioned by men in general, now. I don't want her to marry where she will be unhappy, and I don't know anymore if a happy marriage will be possible for her."

"I used to believe that about myself. I thought, after Willoughby, that I would never be happy again, either. I'm sure she'll find her way back to joy."

"Have you?" He met her eyes.

"Some days I think I have. Other days…the loneliness is more noticeable, that's all." After a few moments of strained silence, she changed the subject, "This pavilion is exactly the kind of place I like best."

"Even though it is in disrepair?"

"I think ruins are more Romantic, don't you?"

"I do-but I also think we'll be lucky to stay dry. Pneumonia isn't very Romantic." He gestured to the roof, from which a steady stream of raindrops had begun to drip a few feet to the side of them.

"I used to think it would be very beautiful to die of a fever. Until I almost did."

He glanced at her. "We were all very glad you pulled through."

"Was I very ridiculous back then? When I used to go off chasing after stormclouds and dreaming of what would never happen?"

"Ridiculous? I don't know."

"I nearly killed myself. I know everyone was so angry with me. I suppose you were angry, too."

"Yes." He answered. "For a little while, I was."

She was taken aback. She hadn't expected him to answer her, much less to answer in the affirmative.

"You were?"

"Miss Dashwood, we were all concerned for you. Emotions ran high. I think most of us were...mostly angry that we couldn't do anything to help you."

She sat there for a moment, taking it in. "Are you still angry?"

He shook his head no. "I remembered how it was for me, after Eliza's mother… I joined the army. I ran off to India, for God's sake. Love makes us do things that aren't logical. I understood."

"You really aren't still angry? Honestly?"

"No. I-I would not be untruthful to you."

"Oh." She shivered.

"Are you sure you aren't cold?"

"Well, maybe a little-if you have a blanket."

He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a thin, worn woolen army blanket with his initials sewn into a corner. He shook it out and handed it to her, and she spread it over her legs. The rain had stopped pounding and had steadied to a gentle patter, but was still coming down and showed no sign of stopping. She gestured. "What else do you have in there?"

"Well, for starters, Miss Margaret's samosas, which are getting cold."

"We should probably eat them, then. We can get more for Margaret tomorrow."

He laughed. "You're right." He opened the parcel and took one out, dunking it unceremoniously into the jar of chutney and taking a bite. Then he scooted himself and the saddlebag over to where she sat and shared with her. Together, wordlessly, they polished off two samosas each, and Brandon folded the cloth, closed the glass jar, and put both back in the bag. Marianne gently poked her nose into the bag to see what other treasures it held: a book, a pipe, a pouch of tobacco, a fire striker, an apple, a small knife, a pot of salve of some sort, and a flask.

"I should have taken my book out of my saddlebag. Miss Williams has just loaned me one of hers."

"You may feel free to read this one, if you like. I've read it from cover to cover a thousand times already. Do you care for Donne?"

"Very much! Perhaps we could read together."

He smiled. "If you'd like." She patted the ground next to her, and he came closer. He was very close to her, actually, in the interest of both of them being able to see the book. Marianne felt the shawl slip down and her bare arm brush against the fabric of his shirtsleeve, where his arm radiated warmth. But for some reason, he shivered.

"Are you cold as well? You've lost your coat and given me your blanket."

"I shall survive." He smiled kindly. "I had ten years in the army. I can withstand a little cold."

"But… won't it upset your rheumatism?"

For some reason, this made him laugh. She looked at him uncertainly until he stopped. "I don't have rheumatism, Miss Dashwood. You've been making comments about my rheumatism for the past two years. I don't know where you got the idea, but it's false." He was smiling, so it was clear he wasn't angry with her for the misunderstanding.

"I'm so sorry-I didn't mean to insult you. But once, just after we met you at Barton, I heard you say something about an ache near your shoulder that increased when the weather changed. I thought that meant rheumatism."

"It usually does. In this case, however, it's an old wound."

"From the army?"

"From the army."

"Where is it?"

He gestured to his chest, just up and to the left of where his heart would be. She inhaled sharply.

"You were stabbed? Or shot?"

"Shot." He told her the story of his first skirmish in India, and the man he had killed, and how he and Sir John had been friends ever since. She listened, enraptured.

"You killed him? Shot him?"

"Yes. He would have killed me, else."

"How did you feel afterwards? Did you...were you glad you'd killed him?"

"Glad?" He looked at her. "No. I was never glad. I made myself sick about it, actually. I killed three men, the whole time I was there-first, the man at the mosque; then later, two men who ambushed our barracks when I was keeping watch. Each time I hated myself, what I had to do. But I did my job; I protected my men as best I could. And they were good men. I was happy there, in a way, despite everything."

"Do you miss it? Army life? India?"

"Only when it's very cold here," he smiled. "But England is my home. Delaford is my home."

"Why did you stay so long, then?"

"Haven't you ever wanted to run away from home?"

She smiled. "I almost succeeded."

"Really?"

"Yes, once when I was twelve. A troupe of travelling players came to the assembly hall in the village near Norland and put on a production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. I begged and begged to go, and Father took me, and then I was so in love with the play, and the idea of becoming an actress, that I decided to sneak out in the night and become one of them. I made it as far as the inn, but the barkeep recognized my curly hair and sent word to my father to come and get me at once. I wept and wept the whole way back."

"I can imagine you doing that," he laughed. He shivered again.

"Why don't we warm up with something to drink," she suggested, pulling out the heavy flask from the bag. "It's clear that you are cold."

"Erm, Miss Dashwood, I don't think that's a good idea," he replied. He coloured a bit. "I'll be fine. It looks like it may clear up soon." He gestured to the sky, which in actuality showed no sign of stopping at all.

"Well, then...at least...come under here. The blanket is big enough. We can share."

"Oh, I-Miss Dashwood, surely-you would not ask me to compromise your virtue in such a way."

"What little virtue there remains," she muttered. "It's just a blanket. Come."

He shook his head, crossed his arms.

"Suit yourself." She opened the book, and began reading. He took spectacles out of a pocket in his waistcoat and bent over the pages with her. "You like this one?" she flipped to a page he had dog-eared.

"Yes. It's my favourite."

"Thy firmness makes my circle just, and makes me end where I begunne," she quoted. "It's a beautiful poem. Will you read it aloud?"

He obliged her. His voice when he read was soothing, powerful, and she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the column, listening. He read several more of his favourites to her, and she lost herself in the sound.

He finished and was silent. She kept her eyes closed. She felt a truth bubbling up from her depths. She needed for it to emerge.

"Colonel Brandon, may I tell you something?"

He looked at her, concerned. He nodded.

"Mr. Willoughby and I… we kissed. We rode off to Allenham together, the day of the Whitwell picnic when you rode to London, and while there...he kissed me."

He made no sign of surprise. He simply nodded his head.

"I respect your opinion, so-please tell me. Does that make me… do you think that means I am...damaged? Like Miss Williams?"

"No." He was staring at the cloth book cover intently. "No, I do not."

She took a deep breath. "And even so, I wish I could take it back. I feel it was wrong to let him. Not because we were not married, even-but because in the end, he did not really love me like he should have. I will always have that regret, that I gave him something that ultimately meant so little to him."

His face was drawn, and he looked uncomfortable. He still didn't meet her eyes. "You must forgive yourself. You followed your heart, and it led you astray. Who hasn't done so?"

"Have you-have you ever…?" She trailed off. "Forgive my impertinence."

"Have I ever-kissed anyone?" he asked.

"Is it a stupid question?"

"No, just surprising. I have."

"Eliza's mother?"

"Yes."

"And you were engaged to her-at least secretly. So it was acceptable. At least I think so."

"There have been others, too."

She raised her eyebrows, flustered. "Oh. I thought-that is, I knew that men were generally allowed more… tolerance in that respect." She blushed.

"Yes."

"It's just surprising, that you…" she struggled for the right word. "That you, of all people, would have been tempted, as well. You seem so immune to those sorts of things."

He smiled grimly, but didn't respond. He stood, reached into the saddlebag, took out the pipe, tobacco, and striker, and prepared to smoke, walking across to the next column and blowing smoke out into the crisp wet air. She could not see his face, because he had turned away from her. By his posture, he looked tired. Pained.

They were quiet for a long minute. The rain continued to fall, and Marianne had a strange feeling all of a sudden. "Colonel?"

"Yes?"

"This conversation feels… familiar all of a sudden. Have we spoken of these things before?"

He looked back at her, and then returned his gaze out into the rain. "Yes."

"We have?"

"As I said, I will not lie to you."

"When? Why do I not remember this conversation?"

"It was some time ago. It was of no importance."

"Colonel, you promised you will always be truthful with me…?"

He nodded. She stood up and let the blanket and her shawl fall to the ground. She found that she was not cold anymore. He turned around and faced her, pipe in hand, arms crossed, leaning back against the column, looking worried, but still meeting her gaze.

Her mind swam with questions for him, but she had no idea how to ask him. The first one she could think of came out of almost effortlessly. "Did you look? When I mounted Othello earlier-did you look at my legs, really?"

A spell was broken, and he let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Then he cackled, seeming relieved. "My God, woman."

She laughed with him. "You promised you'd tell me the truth!"

"So I did. Yes, then. I did look. For one split second. And then I looked away, and that is God's truth, I swear it."

She shook with laughter. "But Colonel, you promised!"

"I know what I promised. But they were there, right in front of me. You'd have done the same." He ran a hand through his hair, smiling.

She knew what her next question needed to be. "When did we talk about Willoughby kissing me? And why do I not remember it? I swear I have told no one except my mother and Elinor."

"You really want to know?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "It was the night of Elinor's wedding."

She furrowed her brows. "But...but that night, I thought I had gone straight to bed after all the guests had left. I remember nothing but waking up the next morning in my own bed."

"Well, you wanted to know." He looked at his boots.

"Did we talk of anything else?"

"Not very much."

"Do you remember how I got to my room?"

"I helped you. You were…"

"Oh, God. I had so much to drink."

"Yes."

"But so had you! You had at least four glasses of wine! I remember counting because I was surprised to see you so diverted and merry. And I remember you dancing with me, and with half the other girls there! You must have been drunk too, and yet I'm the only one of us who doesn't remember!"

"Well, clearly I can hold my wine better than you can."

"Did-did I do or say anything...that I ought to regret?"

His eyes still had not left his boots. His voice grew quiet. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Miss Dashwood, I don't pretend to know your feelings."

"Then, did I do anything that made you uncomfortable?"

"I-I don't think I can answer that."

"Colonel, you promised to tell me the truth."

"I said I couldn't lie to you. That doesn't mean I have to tell you everything, does it?"

"Yes, but don't I have the right to know? What happened that night? What did I do?"

He took a deep breath. "We talked for a while. And then I helped you to your room. And then… oh, God, Miss Marianne…"

Her heart thudded. "Say my Christian name again," she whispered.

He looked up and met her eyes, pleading. "Miss Dashwood-"

"Say it."

"Miss Marianne," he acquiesced. All of a sudden, the memory rushed back to her-the melody his voice had created the last time he had called her by her Christian name; the rush of pleasure that had coursed through her as he'd said it; the way their lips had met-and the way he had kissed her so thoroughly and deeply that it had felt like he could heal all the pain she'd ever known with his mouth and his hands and the warmth of his body. This had been real. This had really happened. Colonel Christopher Brandon had kissed her. And it had been...good.

"I remember now." Her voice was soft. She walked over to where he stood. She met his eyes. It was as if a mask had been taken off, and the soul of him was laid bare. His eyes-what was he feeling? He looked as if he would weep. "Did you hate it? When you kissed me?"

He shook his head. "No." The rain intensified suddenly, and from where they stood so close to the edge of the pavilion, gusts of wind caused rivulets of water to whirl all around them; the roof of the shelter was ineffective against the spray.

"Did you...like it?"

"Miss Dashwood-"

"Was I any good at it? At kissing?"

"God, Marianne. You remember that night now? You ought to know. Didn't it seem as if I were enjoying myself to you?" His voice came out bitter, angry.

"All I know is what I felt."

"We were both drunk. Me not as much as you. It was wrong. And I'm sorry. I didn't want you to remember. I thought-you'd blame yourself. And it was not your fault." He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry, Miss Dashwood. I didn't intend-"

"Do you love me?"

"I-I-"

"Do you love me, Colonel?" She was shaking. He met her eyes.

"That's not fair," he croaked.

"Is it true?"

"Yes."

Just then, lightning struck, and an immediate boom of thunder followed.

Neither one could say anything for a long time. Naked pain showed on Brandon's face, and a few tears had spilled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Marianne shook her head, reached her hand up to wipe the tears away, and then placed her palm on his chest.

"How long have you…"

"For two years."

"But that's-that's as long as I have known you."

"Yes."

"Why have you never spoken of your feelings?"

"Because your own feelings have been made perfectly clear."

"In what way?"

"Miss Dashwood, you have made it obvious for as long as I have known you that you are interested in me as merely a friend, at best. For a long time, I despaired of even achieving your friendship. I am not a fool. I didn't want you to run away from me or think me an old dotard."

"I am not running now."

He looked down at the small gloved hand on his chest, and then gently removed it with his own hand. He took a step away from her. "You ought to be."

"Why?" Marianne felt the tears stinging her own eyes.

"I am not for you, Miss Dashwood. You know that I am not."

"No, I don't! Why do you think you are not for me? Please explain!"

He took his pipe and dashed the used tobacco against the column, and she watched it fall to the ground as he put the pipe and other things into his waistcoat pockets. "For starters, I'm nearly twenty years your senior. I'm seven-and-thirty. I live a quiet life-my days of adventure are behind me. I spend all my money on books and music and provisions for my tenants, so I'll never be as rich as anyone thinks I am. I smoke sometimes, and I drink sometimes, and I use foul language when I'm not in polite company, and I'm miserable at entertaining small talk, and I don't do well at parties unless I have, as you pointed out earlier, four glasses of wine. And worst of all, I'm the type of man who kisses drunk women in their bedchambers-I'm no better than John Willoughby. So please tell me where in all of this you see a man who is worthy of even thinking about making you an offer?" After he had spoken his peace, he leaned back against the column and closed his eyes against the torrent of tears that flowed freely now, matching the tumultuous weather.

"Colonel Brandon," she began, her own tears flowing as well, "you are the best man that I know. How could you think yourself unworthy? Two years ago I would barely have entertained an offer from you, it's true, but if you asked me today, I-I've quite changed. I'm nearly twenty years old. I'm-I'm not a silly girl anymore. I'm a woman."

"I know that. God, you're still so young."

"But I'm old enough. Old enough to know what I want. So, you should...you should ask me."

"Oh, Miss Dashwood…" He covered his face with his hands. "I would not want to subject you to the kind of life that you would-please, Miss Dashwood, do not tempt me."

"You want to marry me?"

"Of course I do. Who wouldn't want to marry you?"

"And it would make you...happy? If we married?"

"Miss Marianne-"

"You have to tell me the truth!"

"No! It wouldn't make me happy, because I'd be worrying everyday about whether or not I'd made you miserable."

"Why don't you let me decide for myself if I would be miserable? All you have to do is kiss me again, and you'll see how wrong you are," she dared him.

They were both breathing heavily, exerted by the passion of their words and the thoughts behind them. Brandon's hair blew in the wind, his eyes glowed with emotion, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. As he stood there, illuminated by flashes of lightning, proud and angry and looking for all the world like Prometheus facing the gods, Marianne's breath caught in her throat and she couldn't for the life of her fathom how he had never, until the past few months, appeared unattractive in her eyes. "Please," she breathed.

His expression slowly softened. "Miss Marianne," he said, "you don't know what you're doing."

"Then teach me."

His eyes closed.

Then they opened again, and through the raw pain she saw there, Marianne thought she detected a faint glimmer of something bright, something like happiness, or at least hope.

"If you don't come to your senses right this second I don't know that I'll be able to stop myself."

"Do it, then," she whispered.

He was at war with himself, it was clear, trying to decide what to do. She watched his face carefully for a moment. Her legs turned to jelly the moment she saw the decision in his eyes.

He reached up and took her face in his hands.

She placed both hands on his chest and tilted her chin up.

He touched his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes.

And just as he was about to lower his lips to meet hers, they heard hoofbeats in the distance.

They were shaken out of their moment of tenderness by the realization of what was happening. Brandon let out a frustrated sound that reminded Marianne of a baited bear as he broke away from her in time to see Williston, the stablehand, galloping towards them in the rain. "Colonel Brandon!" the man called. "Is that you?"

"Yes! We're here! We took shelter from the downpour!"

"Is Miss Dashwood with you!"

Brandon looked guiltily down at her. "Yes, she is!"

"You are needed at once! Mrs. Ferrars is about to deliver!"

Marianne's heart nearly jumped out of her chest. "Oh, God, Elinor!" she exclaimed. She began to gather their things and stuff them into the saddlebag.

"I looked for you at Miss Williams' cottage, and when she said you'd left an hour ago, I thought to check here. She herself has borrowed the Johnsons' horse and has ridden, against my wishes, to the mansion to help look after Mrs. Ferrars' delivery."

"Oh, God, she'll make herself sick, too! Come quickly, Williston, we must ready the horses."

Brandon and Williston ran to the copse to untie Juliet and Othello, and quickly brought them over to the pavilion so that Marianne could mount Juliet in relative dryness. "We'll need to ride hard. The longer Miss Dashwood's exposed to the rain, the more danger of her catching cold again. Her mother will kill me, and then revive me, and then kill me all over."

"Of course, Colonel," Marianne interjected, "but I can't ride hard side saddle. You would have to go ahead and let them know I'm coming, because I could go no faster than a trot."

"By which time you may as well have just remained here and waited for me to come back and fetch you in the carriage. That is perhaps the best plan. Yes. Marianne, you stay here-"

"All alone, thinking about what danger is befalling my sister? Waiting? No, sir. I will come with you."

Brandon already had his foot in the stirrup. "How, pray tell, will you manage that?" He swooped up into the saddle.

"Let me ride with you." Her eyes begged.

He considered her for a moment. Then, to her shock, he nodded without argument.

"Williston, will you hand Miss Dashwood up so she may ride behind me? And lead Juliet back yourself?"

"Certainly."

"This won't be comfortable for you, Miss Dashwood."

"I don't care."

Williston offered her a hand as she stepped into the stirrup, and after struggling to arrange her skirts, fit herself snugly behind Brandon on his saddle.

"And for God's sake, Williston, don't look at her legs."

The stablehand looked confused. Brandon kicked the horse gently to get him moving. "I suggest you hold on tightly, Miss Dashwood."

She slid her hands around his waist, clasping them against his stomach, and she felt him shudder. And just like that, they were off, Marianne feeling as though the world were flying past underneath her, her legs and arms and breasts and cheek all making contact with some part of Brandon's body. Her hair streamed behind her like a veil. She was torn between fear for her sister, and a feeling she had never before experienced-a feeling that she was falling from a precipice, and a certainty that she would be caught before she hit the bottom.


	5. I Feel It All

"I Feel It All," by Feist

For Marianne, the rest of the night went by in a blur. There were six distinct moments she remembered afterwards, among the hurricane of emotions, sounds, sights, and sensations-the night her life changed forever.

One:

Othello slowed down to a canter, then a trot, and finally a walk, at what seemed like the merest of suggestions from Brandon's body language. Marianne wasn't sure how, but the magic of the experience left her in awe of Brandon's body and the things he could do with it. He carefully got down and then helped her to get down as they arrived at the mansion, leaving Othello at the gate for Williston to take back to the stable when he finished stabling the other two horses. "Are you alright?" Brandon asked her, searching her face for signs of discomfort.

"I'm...I'm well. Frazzled, and I hate to think what my hair looks like, but I'm well."

"And, about the other thing…"

"We'll discuss it later."

"Right. Until then..." he took and kissed her hand, and then grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "Now go and change into something dry, right now."

"Is that an order, Colonel?" she grinned at him.

"That's an order, Dashwood." He smiled back, tentative, but that seed of hope in his eyes had grown, and a change in his manner had come over him during their ride. He took himself to his own rooms, looking...buyant.

Two:

Running a cloth through her wet hair, adjusting the fresh gown she had put on, Marianne rushed into the room that Elinor had turned into a birthing chamber. It was obvious which room it was, because the noise could be heard from all the way down the hall. Elinor was unabashed in her screams of pain.

She entered the room, and saw Margaret first, who promptly said, "Where have you been? You and the Colonel have been gone forever! Are you betrothed yet?"

Marianne's eyes widened.

"Margaret!" her mother exclaimed, popping her on the back of her head, and glancing at the other woman in the room besides Elinor, who panted on the bed. Eliza (now wearing a frock, Marianne noted) smirked at Margaret from her position at Elinor's side.

"She asks a good question. Well, Miss Dashwood? Are you?"

"N-no!" Marianne stammered. "Of course not. We were just...out riding, is all. We got caught in the rain. And we had to take shelter for a while, because the Colonel didn't want me to catch cold."

"Oh, he didn't, did he" Margaret quipped, nudging Eliza. The two women shared a knowing glance.

"Will everyone stop talking about how much Colonel Brandon loves Marianne, and start focusing on the fact that I am about to claw my stomach open and rip this child out of me if the pain doesn't subside!" shrieked Elinor.

Everyone's focus was drawn away from Marianne for some time as Elinor's contractions intensified.

Three:

The midwife had still not arrived, as apparently there were a million other women delivering children on the same night. Eliza and Mrs. Dashwood, who had both delivered children of their own, took charge between them. Marianne had been sent to the kitchen for towels, and then back out because she looked as if she would pass out if she didn't take tea soon. She found a servant and asked whether or not it might be possible to get a fresh pot made to take upstairs, and waited outside of the library while her request was granted. Inside the library, she heard voices-the Colonel and Reverend Ferrars, words punctuated by sobbing.

"God, Ferrars, I don't know."

"I just don't think I can live without her-now that I've finally got her."

"I think I know exactly what you mean."

"Do you think that she'll make it? Oh, God. Where is the damned midwife?"

"Mrs. Dashwood and Eliza will do their best without her. And she's reached her time-she will be alright, I am certain."

"Are you?"

"As certain as anyone can be."

"And anyway, I don't know if I'll be halfway decent at being a father. What if I make a mess of it?"

"Jesus, Ferrars, I don't know. The last babe to be born at Delaford was… me. I'm the last person to offer parenting advice."

"But you're so good with Charity. How do you do it? I don't want my child to hate me."

"Oh, he won't. You'll be his hero, no matter what. Remember how you used to idolize your father? Your mother?"

"Yes, and they were both shit, most of the time."

Brandon laughed. "Exactly. My old man was terrible, and yet for a while, I thought he walked on water. The most important thing is to live a good life, so that when he's grown, he'll respect you, I think. Everything else will tend to fall into place."

"Thanks, that-that makes sense." After a few moments, Edward asked, "Do you think you'll ever have children of your own, Brandon?"

Marianne's pulse raced.

"I don't know. I might, I suppose, after all," came the reply, just as her teapot arrived and she was forced to tear herself away from the room where Colonel Brandon stayed and waited.

Four:

Marianne followed Margaret out of the room, her allegiance torn between the beloved sister writhing in pain in the one room, and the beloved sister who-oh dear-was retching into a wastebasket in the next.

She knelt down beside Margaret and held her hair back as the younger girl, now fifteen, vomited ferociously. "Oh, God, Marianne, I can't do this."

"It's alright, darling. You can leave any time you wish. You don't have to stay in the birthing room with us. The Colonel is in the library, if you'd like to play chess; I'm sure he'd play with you. Or you can go to your room."

"No, that's not what I mean-" Margaret wiped her mouth, holding her head in her hands. "This. Giving birth. I-the very thought of it makes me sick. I don't want to. Ever. I'm happy for Elinor. I am so happy to be an aunt-really I am. I love children. But I-Marianne, I don't want to be a mother. Or a wife. I know I shall have to, but-literally nothing frightens me more," she said, her eyes windows into her terror.

"Oh, Margaret-" Marianne saw that this wasn't one of Margaret's petulant rants, which were growing more and more infrequent the older she grew. This was real fear in her sister's eyes, and it was deep. "How long have you felt this way?"

"I think-my whole life. I hear you and Elinor talking about marriage, and it sounds wonderful for you, and I'm really looking forward to being a bridesmaid for you and the Colonel"-at this, Marianne had to roll her eyes-"but when I think about me doing the same things, I feel a chill all over. I don't want to be a wife, and belong to some man. I want...I want...I don't know. But I want something else. A profession, maybe. I want to travel. And write. And...and…"

"Do you think you'll feel differently when the right man comes along?"

"I don't know… maybe," said Margaret dejectedly. "You're right. I'm just being ridiculous."

"No. No. Don't let anyone, even me, make you think that your feelings are ridiculous. You feel what you feel," Marianne said. "Margaret, whatever you feel you need to do, I will do my best to support you. Just as you and Elinor have always stood by me."

"And you won't tell Mama? She'll murder me."

"Of course not."

Margaret sniffled. "Thank you, Marianne." She smiled and nudged her sister. "So, tell me. Are you engaged, or not? I won't tell, I promise."

Marianne grinned herself. "You can keep a secret? That's going down in the books as 'Biggest Fiction Told by Margaret Dashwood.'"

"You know I can, now. I'm getting better at it. Especially now that you're keeping my secret. I'll be good. Are you?"

Marianne looked at her, trying to decide if she could trust her. She finally decided in the affirmative. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"But I do know that...that he loves me." As she spoke the words, she felt warm all over, as if Brandon's love were the metaphysical representation of the blanket he'd given her in the pavilion earlier.

"Everyone knows that. He's loved you from the first moment he saw you playing the pianoforte. Did you really not know that? You really are the family idiot," Margaret teased.

At this moment, the door to Elinor's room opened, and Eliza came out. "Margaret! Are you alright? Elinor was having a contraction, and I couldn't get away just then, but I was so worried."

Margaret smiled at Eliza. "Just a little under the weather, but I'll be right as rain in a moment. Marianne helped me."

Eliza stood on Margaret's other side, and took her hand. "Ready to head back into battle, Captain?" Eliza asked.

"I think so. Let me go clean my teeth first," she answered wryly. As Eliza helped Margaret up off the ground, Marianne thought she noticed some nearly imperceptible, unsaid thing pass between them. Then Margaret trotted down the hallway towards her room, and the other two women made their way back into the world of screaming.

Five:

"Oh, thank God she's here!"

"Some help she'll do now! The baby's halfway out!"

"We'll take all the help we can get! Miss Tibbs," Mrs. Dashwood entreated the newly arrived midwife, "what do we need to do now?"

The middle-aged woman, looking haggard, inspected Elinor and said, "nothing. In my professional opinion, she can begin pushing."

"Begin! Ha!" Elinor said.

Within five minutes of the midwife's arrival, Elinor was delivered of a tiny baby boy.

Six:

Marianne carried a wriggling bundle in her arms, staring at her new nephew with wonder as she walked slowly through the house. To have been a part of something like this, the delivery of a baby-it had been the most surreal experience of Marianne's life. It reminded her of the needful things of this world-the need for family, and comfort, and a love you could hang your hat on. The need for things that were real.

While Mrs. Dashwood, Margaret, and Eliza were tasked with cleaning up, helping Elinor to wash and change, and making a place ready for the babe, Marianne was given the child to hold and take to his father for the first time.

Her heart pounding, she knocked gently on the door of the library, careful not to wake the baby, who slept (for now) in her arms.

Edward opened it, looking for all the world as if he had been through a war. His face was lined with worry, his hair mussed, his clothing askew. "Marianne!" he greeted her. "Is-oh. My God." He looked at the small creature she carried.

"You have a son, Edward."

Ferrars peered into the blankets at the tiny face in awe, seeming fixed to the spot.

"Would you like to hold him?"

"Oh, I-I fear I'd drop him."

"You won't. Here. Hold him. Take his head first, there you go."

And Edward held his son for the first time.

"What's his name?"

"You and Elinor have yet to tell us!" she smiled.

"Elinor-oh my-is she alright?"

Marianne laughed. "She's very tired. It was quite an ordeal. But she will be alright. Would you like to see her? I think she should be ready to see you soon."

"Can I?"

"Go!" And he and his son made their way to Elinor, to become a family in earnest.

And Marianne and Brandon were alone in the room. He stood at the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, and watched her.

"Colonel Brandon?"

"Miss Dashwood."

"If you don't mind-I've had a very trying evening. And I'd really like to cash in for that kiss we discussed."

He smiled, lowered his head. "Thank God. I thought I'd be waiting forever. Or that you'd changed your mind."

"No, I did not."

As one they made their way towards each other, meeting in the middle of the room, and at last, he took her in his arms. Their lips met frantically, hungrily, as if there were no other option, as if, in meeting, each of them had finally found something long lost, something necessary for breathing, for living. Brandon's hands slid up and down Marianne's back, and Marianne threaded hers through the soft golden-brown locks of hair that crowned his head.

When they finally broke apart, Colonel Brandon sat Marianne down on an ottoman by the fire place, and took the armchair across from her.

"Miss Dashwood, I'm afraid I don't know what to say. Of course, I'll-I'll make an offer of marriage, if you want it. But this is all so sudden. I never thought-"

"I know, Colonel. This is a bit new for me. It's only been a few months since I started...thinking...this way. But you-Margaret said you've loved me since you saw me play pianoforte at Barton."

"Margaret? Even Margaret knew? My God, I've been so very unguarded with my feelings. I'm sorry if I caused you any embarrassment. I know Mrs. Jennings and your mother have known for some time, and probably even Elinor. I hope they didn't give you any grief about it."

"So it's true? You loved me all this time?"

"Yes, I have," he answered.

"Through everything? All my stupid pursuits? You must have been...oh God, you must have been as miserable as I was for the past two years." She reached out and touched his face, and he caught her palm in his hand and kissed it.

"None of that matters. If you could ever come to love me, and-and marry me-nothing else matters."

"I think...I think I could come to love you. I think I may already be on my way to falling in love with you. As it stands-I think so highly of you, that it would make me very happy…" Marianne was overcome. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry." She began to cry, and she pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket in her gown. It had his initials on it. "I still have this!" she smiled through her tears, as she wiped them away. "You gave it to me at Cleveland. Do you remember?"

"I do."

"You told me that you believed in me. That you thought I was strong. You've always cared for me. You cared for me even then. Oh, God! How I wish I had known."

"Miss Dashwood-"

"Please call me Marianne! I love the way you say my name!"

"Marianne," he said, taking his chin in his hands, and before he could think of another thing to say to her, his lips found hers again, and she threw her arms around him and held him so tightly she felt she might hurt him, but he held her with equal vigor.

This time when he broke away from her, he reached into his pocket. Then he knelt down in front of her. "Marianne," he began, "I love you. I beg you, please marry me. I will do my best to deserve you and be a good husband to you."

"Yes, I will!" She nodded, smiling, crying, and accepted the beautiful emerald ring he offered her.

"This was my mother's. I decided I needed to find it this evening, just in case I hadn't dreamed our conversation earlier. It was her favourite. I hope it fits." It was a little loose, Marianne's hands being tiny, but he promised to have it altered when he was next in town, and Marianne was still able to wear it immediately.

She smiled, and then said, "You have given me something so beautiful, but I have nothing to give you in return!"

He grinned at her. "I'm sure you can think of something," he replied. "Perhaps you could kiss me again."

She laughed, and pulled him up from where he knelt. She gently pushed him back into his chair, and then brought her lips to his, and soon his hands were encircling her again from where he sat. She needed more, more contact, more assurance that he was really hers, so she came to place each of her knees outside his legs, kneeling to straddle him in the chair. He made an appreciative sound as she did so, and drew her hips into him, parting his lips to taste her tongue with his, causing her own moan of surprise and pleasure.

"God, Marianne," he murmured into her mouth, "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to be exactly here with you?"

"Really? Is this something you...enjoy?" She smiled, and touched the tip of her nose to his.

He nodded and gulped. "Would you like a very long engagement?"

"Please, dear God, no."

"Good." He nuzzled her neck with his lips as he spoke, and then edged her from where she was currently positioned and into his lap. "Because I don't think I can wait very long."

"I don't want to wait long, either."

She already loved so many things about him, and the feel of his mouth moving into a smile, invisible to her but still tangible, as it pressed into whatever part of her body he happened to be kissing, was her current favourite thing.

The evening had been long and arduous, and soon, overcome by the gentleness of his caresses, she fell asleep on his lap right there in the arm chair, her cheek on his shoulder. This was where her mother, sister, and new friend Eliza found her and her fiance, who had apparently also drifted off. Her hand was pressed to his heart, while one of his arms curled around her back, and the other was tangled up in her hair. He had a smile on his face in sleep. The emerald ring was visible on her finger, and glinted in the firelight from where the three of them stood in the doorway.

Note: One more chapter coming!


	6. Fidelity

"Fidelity," by Regina Spektor

It was a very brief engagement indeed. The banns were called the following Sunday from Edward Ferrars' own pulpit-and every person in the church stood up to cheer for the Colonel, the principal man of Delaford, and later congratulated him and his new bride-to-be, who sat beside him in church in her best dress and blushed crimson each time she was introduced as the future Mrs. Brandon. The smile didn't leave her face, and the Colonel himself found it difficult to do anything other than grin like a fool, those first few days. Neither heart had ever been lighter. They would spend the following week together, overseeing the removal of Elinor and Edward back to the parsonage with their new child. Then Marianne would go back to Barton and prepare her trousseau while Brandon would make Delaford ready to accommodate her, and she and her mother, sister, and friends at Barton would rejoin him in six weeks' time for the week of the wedding.

It was only now that they were officially engaged that Marianne truly saw what it was that everyone else had observed in Brandon's behaviour that made them think of love. His attentions to her, the way his eyes lingered over her when he spoke with her, the way he asked her opinion in all things, the way he found opportunities to be near her, and the way his face changed perceptibly when she entered into his presence-all of these things became obvious marks of his affection, and she wondered that she had been blinded to it until now. It pleased her, and she found herself looking for new ways to make him smile. She asked him to sit by her in the drawing room, and to partner at cards with her, and she played the pieces she knew he liked best when she was asked to play and sing. He was still the same Colonel she had always known-quiet, gentle, thoughtful-but the spring in his step and the light in his eyes made him seem newer and more alive. Marianne thrilled to hear him laugh, and to see how proud he seemed to walk around arm in arm with her, and to let it be known to everyone in the country that she would soon be his. She enjoyed the surprise and joy in the faces of everyone who had ever known him, when they saw their friend suddenly become happy. Her own family's ecstasy at the engagement, tempered only by their excitement about the new baby, was also felt by Marianne as a blessing.

She liked it best when they were alone, though. It was in these moments that they were able to really talk. She learned that they shared so much in the realm of interests, sentiments, and desires, but often where Marianne had dreamed, Brandon had done. She learned about every aspect of his past, his fears, his moments of greatest weakness, the things he was proudest of. He learned of her hopes, beliefs, and things that kept her up at night. She read him some terrible poetry she had written; he laughed, and dug out some horrible music he had once written. They talked about Delaford, about what she wanted to change so it would become her home as well as his (very little, for she liked it as it was). They planned for their honeymoon-Brandon had asked her where she would like to go best of anywhere in the world, and though at first she had demurely said she didn't want to do anything extravagant, he finally convinced her that he could afford to take her where her heart desired. It had involved showing her the figures from his estate's accountant, and she was dizzy with equations and numbers, and finally threw up her hands and admitted that she might like to see the mountains of Austria and Switzerland some day. It was decided, and Brandon immediately made plans to travel with her beginning two days after they were wed.

It was also in these moments that they could touch, unimpeded by the eyes of their family and friends. All was chaste and proper; but Brandon, who had been almost like an abandoned puppy the first few times he had kissed Marianne, so starved was he for affectionate touch, needed to get used to the presence of her body as well as her heart in his life. He told her again and again: the real woman who stood before him, or sat beside him, or (once, when they warmed themselves on the rug in front of the fire) lay beneath him-that real woman was better than all visions he had entertained of her.

Marianne herself had never been particularly invested in making someone else happy in the way that she now was, and she found that her own happiness increased so much as a result that, when it was finally time to take her leave of him to return to Barton, she actually wept at the loss of him. He took her to his chest and held her, reminding her that it was only a six week estrangement-and that afterwards, they would live as one. At the mention of this event, their eyes met, and she kissed him deeply, and promised him that she would write each day to him, and he promised her the same. And her carriage departed, carrying her mother and younger sister and their belongings as well as an entire satchel of things for Marianne to take back to Barton in memory of the life that awaited her at Delaford: books, music, a miniature of him as a child that had been his mother's. Brandon stood at the gate to wave them off.

He carried something of hers as well-a lock of hair in the case of his pocket watch. He knew she had given such a gift before, and had at first wanted to refuse it, thinking she was offering out of obligation. But she had told him-"I trust you with this because I know you will treasure it." Now he fondled the soft curl each time he thought of her, remembering the sweet silky glory from whence it had sprung, and reminding himself that he had not imagined her into being-this curl was proof that she was real, that she was coming back to him.

They sent letters each day, as they had promised:

October 20, 1798

My darling Christopher,

I have only been parted from you for one day, but I already feel our distance greatly. We reached Barton safely, and it was within ten minutes of our arrival that we saw Mrs. Jennings and her son-in-law, begging us for news of Elinor. That conversation kept them occupied for some time, but soon Sir John's eyes alighted on my face, which was infinitely more animated than it had been the last time he had seen me, and it was made known that my happiness had come from _you_! I cannot express how glad Sir John was to learn that I was to be your wife. I do believe he was in tears. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Middleton were exceedingly pleased as well, and offered to take me to London for my wedding clothes, until it was revealed how soon we would have to have them ready; so, Mrs. Middleton graciously gave me one of her dresses and is having it altered to fit me. I hope it will look well, and that I will make you a proud husband on the day of our wedding.

I spent the whole way back to Barton thinking of how it will be when I see you again. I imagined jumping out of the carriage and leaping into your arms to embrace you there, in front of God and everyone, and you kissing me and telling me you have mourned so for me that you have neither eaten nor slept. Of course none of this will happen; I will not embarrass you in front of our friends, and I certainly hope you have been eating well and sleeping, for I do not want you to become ill so soon before we are wed. But know that, though I may greet you with all the composure of a proper lady, in my heart and mind I am showing you how deeply I have come to care for you, and only want being alone with you to make these feelings manifestly known.

Your bride,

Marianne

October 20, 1798

My dearest love,

I know that I have not heard from you whether you have even arrived back at Barton, but I could not go another minute without writing to you to express how I long for your return. It seems cruel that, so soon after securing you for my wife, I should have to part ways with you; I find that time passes ever so slowly with you gone. I believe that may be the secret to living forever, to be parted from the woman you love, for I feel that I must live an eternity before I behold your face and hear your voice again.

I visited with Eliza and Charity today, and you'll be glad to know that they are in good spirits, and that the Bhatts are taking care of them well. Charity met baby William when Elinor visited with Eliza today, and she thinks of him quite as her dolly. Now that she has a friend to play with, I shall be cut out of her life utterly, I fear. Mother and child are both well there, too; William smiled for the first time already, and your sister is determined to think him the future greatest mind in England.

I have written to Sir John and Lady Middleton of our good news, although they will probably hear it from you first. I hope they do not pepper you with too many questions or give you any reason to regret what has passed between us. Remember that they love us, and that they only tease you because it makes them so happy to see two of their friends becoming united. Remember, too, that when the novelty of our marriage wears off, they'll leave you be-and then, the only person who will demonstrate such happiness at our match, for years to come, will be _me_! If I could be there to ease the blow of their enthusiasm, I would; as it stands, I make for London Monday.

I must meet with so many people, my (or shall I say our?) solicitor; our bankers; our jeweler, to resize the ring I gave you; our stationer; and my tailor, for I am to have my army uniform altered for our wedding, if the thought of standing up beside an old Redcoat doesn't have you running for the hills. I know that whatever I wear, I shall be greatly eclipsed by you, for, as soon as the church doors open and you make your first appearance, no one will pay attention to anything or anyone else due to your radiance.

I find myself thinking, as I pack and ready myself for my journey, about the great fortune I have in you. Your beauty is one thing-and it is a very great thing; your youth and elegance are enough to draw any man's heart, beating still, out of his chest and into your hands. I dream about your curls, and your green eyes, and the warmth of your smile, and a thousand other things I had better not confess to you in a letter. But it is your character that I fell in love with, the way you put your talents to use-the passion with which you play and sing and dance and read and speak-and the graciousness of your heart, and your adventurous spirit, and your wit and quickness to laugh. Each one of these traits is loveliness itself; they come together to create perfection. What have I done to deserve such-indeed, what could I ever do? All I can do is pray that I remain

Yours always,

Christopher

November 17, 1798

My dearest,

I count three weeks to the day before I see you. The rain has been pouring here, and it matches my mood. I long for you. Each time the thunder claps I remember the day we stood in the pavilion at Delaford, when you confessed so unwillingly that you loved me, thinking that I would reject you. I think, if only we had known how each other felt much sooner, we could be together right now. Married.

The thought of becoming your wife fills me with such joy, as I ponder it, that I know not what to think. To share in the life of a man I admire so greatly, who ought to think of me as no more than a poor young friend, but who instead sees me as an equal-nay, a true partner in life-I cannot help but shake my head in awe. You said once in a letter that you are undeserving of me, but it is the opposite that is true. I cannot come close to deserving you. But I can try to make you happy, if you will allow me to do so.

I've hand-written and enclosed a copy of your favourite Donne poem. I wrote it out and kissed each word as I did so, hoping to imbue it with something of my real affection. As I wrote, I thought of the words applying to us-for we are surely "inter-assured of the mind," and you will not forget me, nor will your love lessen with time and distance. At least I hope that this is true.

I must go, for I am to spend the afternoon being fitted for all sorts of garments of linen and muslin and cotton, so that I do not scandalize you by being poorly dressed when we are married. Mrs. Jennings has ordered a special velvet wrap for me as a wedding gift, and as I put it on, I think how much you will like holding me and caressing me in such a soft shawl; I shall therefore wear it often, if my conjecture is true! I know I ought not contrive such things, and ought to be a good and demure young woman who is happy to receive any affection offered, and not appear too desperate or wanton. But as you know, that is not my way. If my honesty and forthright nature have not frightened you off yet, I can only hope that they will not ever do so, and that you will allow me to remain forever

Yours,

Marianne

November 24, 1798

My darling Marianne,

London is cold and dismal, but if you were here with me it would seem like a warm day in spring.

I have avoided town, with the exception of a day or two here or there, since the time you and Elinor were here with Mrs. Jennings for the season. It was a time of trial for all of us, and I can't but think of all we did and felt then, and how much has changed.

I am so glad to have known you then-yes, even though it means having seen you in distress, and having experienced great heartache then myself. I am glad because it means I have seen what I believe and hope to be the darkest time in your life, and have provided you with proof that my affection is constant, through darkness and light. Even the memory of your grief gives me hope, that we can build a foundation upon the hardships we have faced, and the fortitude we have developed by overcoming them.

My time here has drawn to a close, and tomorrow I will saddle up and ride back to Delaford, stopping for the night and making two days of it, rather than trying to complete the whole ride at once. I am not the young man I once was, and since you will be joining me so soon to begin our life together, I will need my strength and energy. In just one week, I will see you again. It is almost too much joy to bear.

I received your letters from the past week, forwarded to me from Delaford, and smiled to read the mention of the velvet wrap. I would love to hold you while you wear it, and you can be assured that I would be happy to appreciate its fine texture, but please forgive me for my forwardness: the softness of your skin is better than any velvet or silk or linen. If you are thinking of ways to please me by wearing certain frocks or other garments, just know that nothing pleases me like the touch of your skin against mine. I am largely indifferent to clothing. It is the woman inside the clothing that I love.

My apologies again for speaking my mind. You, however, need never ask forgiveness for speaking yours. Such a fine mind needs an audience, and I am glad to provide one.

Yours completely,

Christopher

November 30, 1798

My love,

You are already on your way to Delaford. I imagine the horses hitched to your carriage, noble beasts carrying such a precious wonder to me, and I feel like a king or a pharaoh, that I could receive such a tribute. God has truly blessed me in you, Marianne. And your fears have proven unfounded. My love for you has not faded, but grown, with each passing moment.

I will not post this letter, for it will not reach you at Barton. From this day forth, you will not reside there, but here, with me, at Delaford. I will place it in an envelope, and lay it on the pillow of the bed in the chamber adjoining my own, the chamber that will be yours.

You told me your favourite color is blue, and I have done my best to give you a blue room. I hope you like the coverlet, the curtains, and the wall paper. My taste is not perfect, but I did have help. Your sister made suggestions, and I think she was satisfied with how everything looks. If it is too much blue, you need only say the word and I can replace everything to your liking. I am utterly at your command.

I also added some touches of blue to my own chamber, which is, as I said, just next to yours. I hope it is enough to encourage you to visit me there every once in awhile. If you prefer not to, again, I am at your command.

It goes without saying that I am completely enamoured of you, in every possible way. But I do not know the depth of your affection, or the directions in which it extends. I must be honest with you _here_ , because sometimes words fail me when I try to speak-I would be very pleased if you came to me, on our wedding night or on some other night, as a wife. I would try my best to make the experience one you would not regret overmuch, though I know that my own particular manly charms are probably lacking. But if you need time, or if you decide that you do not want to be with me in that way, I will never be angry. I am, in all truth, so happy to have you in my life that, should we never do anything more than walk arm in arm for the rest of our days, I would still count myself the luckiest of men.

I see from the window what I believe to be Sir John's carriage cresting the hill, and I know that you are in it. My heart beats harder than it has in weeks, to know that you are so close to me. I must make certain that everything is in order before you come inside and see your new home. So I will leave this note for you to find whenever you happen to, for to speak with you of this would be even more difficult than it has been to write it.

You have my heart in your possession. You have been an excellent caretaker of it thus far, and I look forward to a lifetime in your stewardship.

I love you.

Christopher

Brandon placed the letter on the pillow. She probably wouldn't even see it until after they were wed, as she was to stay in her accustomed room in the guest wing, adjoining the room occupied by her mother and Margaret, until the night of the wedding. But he needed to give her an opportunity to see it eventually, so that his desire, such as it was, would be known. He took courage and asked himself, what was the worst that could happen?

He closed the door behind him, walked down the hall and down the stairs, and stepped into the entryway by the front door. Carter, his butler, smiled at him and patted him on the back as he passed him by. "They're here, aren't they?"

"Yes," Brandon said.

"I'll gather the staff to greet them."

"Thanks." His stomach clenched nervously. He walked outside.

The carriage pulled up in front of the house in the light of early evening. Margaret sat on the seat by the driver, and jumped off as soon as the horses were somewhat still. "Colonel Brandon!" she exclaimed. She ran towards him and embraced him. "I'm so happy to have you as a brother soon!" He laughed, and tipped his hat to her.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you."

"We're starved. Please say we'll have dinner soon."

"What sort of host would I be if I couldn't promise you a full meal?"

"You are the best brother. Don't tell Edward."

"I won't."

Then, Mrs. Jennings emerged, voluptuous and noisy as ever. "Colonel Brandon!" she shrieked, as he handed her out of the carriage. "What did I tell you? I knew you and Miss Marianne would hit if off! If only it hadn't taken you so long, you'd have gotten a couple of babes on her by now, and we'd have even more joys to celebrate!"

"Madam," he nodded to her, smiling his wry smile after her as she followed Margaret towards the house. Mrs. Dashwood exited the carriage next, greeting him warmly, followed by Mrs. Middleton, whose eyes glistened as she told him that Sir John was following close behind on his horse, but that they both extended their sincere congratulations. And then, at last, came Marianne.

He beheld her, looking down at him, and their eyes met. No words were said, or needed. He held his hand for her to take, aware that they were being watched by the four women at the door, as well as the servants who had gathered. He didn't care. As soon as she was safely down on the ground, he took her face in his hands, and kissed her hard.

"Will you still marry me, Miss Dashwood?" he asked when he broke away and met her gaze again.

"Yes I will, Colonel Brandon. Yes," she gushed, her smile angelic, her eyes shining.

He slipped the ring, which now fit her perfectly, out of his pocket and onto her finger. And the two of them, master and future mistress of Delaford, crossed the threshold into their new life, walking past the ogling spectators to their happiness.

Note: Okay, this went differently than I planned. One more chapter of this one is coming. Then I write the sequel, which will be M-rated. Squee!


	7. Fugue in G Minor

Fugue in G Minor, by J. S. Bach

That night was a merry one, relaxed and happy for all present. Eliza had been invited up to the mansion for dinner, and though Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings were at first a bit scandalized to meet her and have her at table, the warmth with which Marianne and the Colonel greeted her soon overcame their hesitations about dining with someone of poor reputation. Marianne and her fiance had discussed Eliza's presence in their lives and how it may cause some awkwardness from time to time, but Marianne's response had been open-hearted: "She is someone you love and take responsibility for. I will be glad to count her as one of our family, and I will never treat her as if I am ashamed of our connexion."

Elinor and Edward came up, too, and had left the baby with the Bhatts, who were now sitting for both young children. Just as they were about to give up the ghost of Sir John arriving before dinner, and Edward was about to say grace over the meal, in came the man himself. John Middleton walked up to Brandon in the middle of the gathered party without saying a word, and gave him a great bear hug.

"You just had to make a dramatic entrance, didn't you?" Brandon laughed as John broke their embrace.

"When my brother becomes engaged, I celebrate." John grinned. "Congratulations, man."

"You will stand up with me?"

"I already wrote you that I would. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: I've got your back. Now, let's eat."

Brandon's eyes met Marianne's again from where she stood talking with Elinor, and she walked over to take his arm, smiling up at him. "Will you walk me in to dinner?"

"It would be my honor." He felt butterflies in his stomach as her gloved hand threaded through his coat-sleeved arm, and so did she. Both of them had the same thought, though neither could express it: _If only we were alone._

But the dinner was excellent. Brandon's cook was a good one, though she hadn't yet mastered any of the dishes Mrs. Bhatt had been specially paid to come and teach her; tonight Brandon had ordered up a big English supper, creamy pease soup and venison and pickles and good cheese and excellent red wine, the same that had been drunk at Elinor's wedding. With the dessert course, Brandon had ordered in, in addition to a beautiful bowl of oranges that made everyone gasp and clap with appreciation, a great pot of drinking chocolate. Marianne burned her tongue on the novelty but kept drinking, so excited was she to taste it. When she had finished, she was so stuffed that she felt she'd need to be rolled out of the room.

The gentlemen pardoned the ladies, who adjourned to the drawing room for gossip and cards. Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings made up a foursome with Eliza and Elinor, leaving Marianne and Margaret to sit on the settee and talk.

"You do know that the good Colonel has been trying very hard not to stare at your breasts all supper," Margaret noted the second she was sure she wouldn't be heard. She picked up the glass of sherry at her elbow and drank.

"Shut up, Margaret. You don't know what you're talking about," Marianne hissed, blushing furiously and tugging at the bodice of her admittedly low-cut gown. "I think I'd know. I was sitting right next to him."

"You see," Margaret replied, "but I do not think that you observe, really."

"It isn't really proper for you to be talking about whether or not Christoph-I mean, the Colonel, is looking at my-er-breasts." she whispered this word.

"Why? I'm only being honest. Besides, it's not a scandal. He'll be ogling his fill at them soon enough," Margaret smirked.

"What do you know about anything?" Marianne chided. "You're just fifteen."

"I'm the same age Eliza was when she-you know-with Willoughby."

"Yes, and I'll be damned if you go down the same route. As much as I admire Eliza's strength, I don't fancy you an unmarried mother at sixteen, as well, and I'm sure she'd agree with me."

"I'm not saying-"

"Good. Then don't say."

Margaret was quiet for a moment. "Marianne, how do you know you're in love?"

Marianne looked quizzically at her younger sister. "I guess I don't know. Why?"

"You don't know? Don't you love Colonel Brandon?"

"Margaret, it's...it's complicated. I think very highly of him. I esteem him-oh, God. I sound like Elinor."

"But don't you think of him? You know, doing...things...to you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean at all," Marianne said, turning even more red-almost purple.

"You do, and I know it because I overheard your conversation with Mother last night before we came here. You had all _sorts_ of questions for her. By the way, that whole enterprise sounds unappealing."

"It does, the way Mother made it out to be, doesn't it? And yet-sometimes when Chris-I mean, the Colonel, looks at me, I feel…"

"As if your body can't be controlled by your brain any longer?" Margaret finished, looking out into the distance.

"...Yes. I suppose, yes."

"You once said that to love is to be on fire. But fire burns so completely; it consumes us. Isn't that a bad thing?"

"Perhaps...there's more than one kind of fire, after all. The kind that burns quickly, and the kind…"

"The kind that smolders," Margaret supplied. At this moment on the opposite side of the room, Eliza, winning her hand, gave a great laugh and tossed her head back, some of her golden hair escaping its pinned prison and spilling out behind her. Margaret looked down at the ground. "The kind that burns gentle in the hearth of your belly, and keeps you from freezing when it's cold outside."

"That was quite poetic, Margaret! We'll make you a Romantic yet."

"Don't be so sure," Margaret rolled her eyes and drank the rest of her wine.

"And by the way, how many other conversations have you overheard when we all thought you to be asleep?"

Margaret grinned as she helped herself to another glass.

Eventually, Edward and Sir John joined the ladies in the drawing room, and the group spread out to talk about gossip and wedding plans. Marianne noticed that the Colonel was not among them. She looked confusedly about her, but soon she was in the middle of a maelstrom of questions and couldn't think of anything else. When attention was directed towards her mother and sister at last, and all manner of wedding- and baby-related questions were directed at them, Marianne took an opportunity to slip out of the drawing room and into the hallway to look for _him_.

As she crossed the foyer and looked into the hallway where the dining room was located to see if he was there, she walked right past him.

"Miss Marianne," he purred. She turned to see him, bathed in the half-light of the foyer, sitting a few steps up on the staircase. He looked dangerous suddenly, like a tiger who was ready to pounce, but she wasn't afraid.

"Christopher!" she exclaimed, feeling the broad smile grow slowly on her face as she beheld him. "Why did you not come into the drawing room?

"I was hoping you'd come find me, and that we could have a moment alone. I planned to come in in another moment or two if you didn't."

"I'm glad I did."

"As am I." He reached out and took her hands. Slowly, he drew her to him where he sat. She knelt on the stair in front of him between his open legs. She closed her eyes and her lips parted involuntarily. She felt his big, calloused hand caress her cheek, then wrap around the back of her head and gather up strands of curls through his fingers. He gently pulled her in closer. She moaned a little as his lips, soft but strong, found her own.

Kissing Christopher Brandon was like nothing she had ever done before. Each time was a revelation, a tap into something new at the deepest core of her. Joined with him, mouth touching mouth, tongue and teeth and hands all playing their part to unbalance her, she was always left with the feeling of appreciation, of awe, really, at how thoroughly she was unraveled by him-and a feeling, despite what little her mother had told her of the ways of married love, that there was yet more unraveling to do.

When their kiss finally broke apart, he continued to hold her. "You taste like chocolate," he murmured into her hair.

"You taste like tobacco and scotch," she said, nuzzling his neck, placing a kiss at the sensitive place where his ear met his neck. She felt his laugh before she heard it, bubbling up in his throat.

"Does it bother you?"

"No. I like it. I shall take up smoking, I think."

"Oh, God, it's such a filthy habit. Please don't. I hardly ever do it."

She laughed. "Alright. I won't. But if you don't kiss me often, I shall have to renege on my promise. Your mouth is addictive, and I would need something to replace it."

"You have my word that I will kiss you as often as you like."

"Like right now?"

He pulled back from her hairline, where he had been placing gentle pecks as they talked, and looked into her eyes with his own, smoky and half-lidded with some emotion she so desperately wanted to identify as desire. "Whenever you want. I am yours to command, my love."

"And if we're in public?"

"Then we shall have to contrive a way to be in private."

"We're in private right now."

"So we are."

"So, you're missing an opportunity. Kiss me now."

"Is that an order?"

"That's an order, Colonel."

He grinned. "Yes, ma'am." And he brought his lips to hers again.

It was probably a mistake for them to both make their appearance in the drawing room at the same time afterwards, for Marianne learned from Margaret that her hair was tousled, and from Mrs. Jennings that the Colonel's eyes were wilder than ever she had seen them, and most everyone put two and two together. They sat apart for the rest of the evening, but it was now no secret that they had been affectionate towards one another. So no one took much notice when they locked eyes across the room and smiled, or when each watched the other instead of attending to their own conversations. It was a good evening.

When Marianne made her way up to her room, she found a parcel there. Thinking it to be a surprise from her fiance, she eagerly stripped the card from atop it and tore it open, finding instead that it was from Miss Eliza Williams:

"I thought you might need these. Welcome to the Breeches for Equality Club. I hope they fit."

-EW

Inside, neatly folded, were a pair of trousers, a shirt, a waistcoat, and a tailcoat, tailored to fit a woman of Marianne's stature.

Marianne inspected them, blush on her face though she was alone, and then hid them in her clothes-press under her riding habit. She promptly went to bed, exhausted, but dreaming happy dreams.

Marianne was so busy over the next week that she and the Colonel had barely any time alone together, although they were together in company for much of that time. Each time they did find an opportunity to steal a minute or two to themselves, his kisses were hot, biting and tasting and teasing her into a frenzy. And then they parted, sometimes without words having even been spoken, although his eyes spoke volumes.

It was on the day before the wedding itself that Marianne realized she had completed every task, and that all that remained was to wait. She got up that morning before everyone else and dressed, pacing around her room until she heard someone else stirring, and finally when she thought it appropriate, she went downstairs and shared breakfast with the Colonel's other guests as they trickled in: Lady Middleton, Mrs. Jennings, her mother, Sir John, a very sleepy and belated Margaret. The Colonel himself, she had been told, had breakfasted early and had made his way over to the parsonage to speak with Edward and make sure that everything was in order for the following day. Marianne accustomed herself to a morning without him, embroidering cloth napkins with her future initials, running over the list of clothing articles she'd need for tomorrow in her head to make sure she'd remembered everything.

At lunch time, the Colonel finally arrived back home, his cheeks red from the cold. He met her eyes first of all, and smiled at her. Then he greeted everyone else.

They sat next to each other at lunch, and Marianne found that a shyness had suddenly come over her. This was her last luncheon as a single woman. Each time her hand brushed against his, or his leg touched hers under the table, she felt a chill. She watched his hands as he cut his meat, as he passed a platter of something, and grew more thoughtful than usual.

"Marianne," he said softly so that only she could hear, "are you alright?"

"I am simply thinking of what is to come," she answered, smiling.

"Do your thoughts...make you happy?"

"They do," she assured him. "But I must admit that I am nervous."

"As am I," he replied, offering her the butter dish. "Is there anything I can do to ease your nervousness?"

"I don't know...I think I just need to move around and do something. All this sitting around and waiting is getting to me."

"Would you-would you like to come out riding with me?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes! I think that will be just the ticket. Let me ask mother if it's alright with her."

Her mother of course gave her consent (it being the day before the wedding, what harm could possibly be done?), and Marianne made her way up to her room to change into her habit with the help of Bess, who had been now permanently hired to work at Delaford as the ladies' maid. Bess was a young woman, but still several years older than Marianne herself, and was married to Williston, the stable hand with whom Brandon was so well acquainted. Marianne chatted with her as she stripped off her gown and found the habit in her clothes-press, then saw the articles Miss Williams had sent for her, and wondered: would she look ridiculous in them? She turned to Bess:

"Do you think I could wear these under the habit?"

"Whyever would you wish to do that?"

"Because…" she realized that telling her serving maid her plan to ride astride might cause a scandal for her intended before they were even wed. "Oh, just a silly fancy. I was making a stupid joke!" Bess laughed, confused. Even still, Marianne shoved the garments into a bag and sneaked it outside underneath her cloak.

As she entered the stables, she found that she had beaten Colonel Brandon there, so she ducked into an empty stall and did her best to change out of her habit by herself. She had never worn men's clothing before, obviously, so she was not entirely sure how to make everything work to fit her, but eventually she had on something that looked like an appropriate modern gentleman's outfit. She tucked shirt into trousers, buttoned the myriad buttons at the flap, and donned braces, a waistcoat (flannel, and oh, how warm and cozy it was!), and a heavy tailcoat. She was in the middle of straightening her hair under her bonnet and making sure it hadn't fallen out of place when she heard her fiance calling, "Miss Dashwood! Are you hiding somewhere?"

"Christopher! Can you come here please!" She held up a hand so it was visible above the stall door.

He opened the door to the stall and stood there for a moment, scrutinizing her. His face made no change but for the elevated eyebrow, and he said, "I take it you'd like to continue our lessons?"

"I think so. Do I look stupid? Eliza gave me these."

"No...I can decisively say that you do not look stupid."

"Will I embarrass you if I ride out with you like this?"

He shook his head. "No. Not at all." The look on his face was...indescribable. Whatever he was feeling, it didn't seem to affect his actions toward her, except that she noticed he walked some few feet behind her as they made their way to the horses. Williston was engaged to switch out Juliet's side saddle for an all-purpose one, and while they waited, Brandon handed Marianne an apple to feed her. Woman and horse bonded for a short while. Then their lesson began.

He handed her up into the saddle, and she realized that the look on his face she'd tried to place the first time she rode with him was a look of raw need, which had been barely disguised then, but which now was completely naked on his countenance. How this knowledge coloured all she knew about him, and all the moments they'd spent together!

She didn't move, just sat in the saddle, cold but eager to begin. She watched him mount his own horse, experiencing the same thrill she'd experienced the first time, and then he began to talk her through the experience. He was such a gentle, patient teacher. He taught her how to apply pressure with her legs to get Juliet to move, how to steer, and how to signal that she was ready to stop; once she had mastered these things-which took some time, and caused Marianne no small amount of frustration and laughter-they were ready to try walking out together. They went slowly-Brandon had assured her that there would be nothing faster than a slow walk today-and made their way around the property, where a fresh snow had just fallen. All was so quiet and beautiful, and, though it was exhausting to ride like this, Marianne had never felt so regal.

"I didn't think, my love-this is probably the worst thing for you to be doing the day before your wedding. You'll be quite sore tomorrow."

"I'll live, I think. It's not too bad."

"Just wait," Brandon said, smiling at her.

"Let's just go a bit farther then, and I'll be ready to go back to the house."

"As you wish." He was silent for a moment. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"The riding?"

"The wedding."

She brought Juliet to a stop. "After all this, you think I'd back out?"

"I just want...I don't want you to wreck your life for me. God, I'm so much older, and you're-you're…"

"My father was quite a bit older than my mother, you know."

"Yes, and now look at her. She's alone."

Marianne reached out her hand to catch his, letting go of the rein with her right hand. "My mother would rather have shared a few happy years with my father than a lifetime with anyone else. She told me so herself."

"And you? Do you feel the same?"

Marianne inhaled, and a tear dropped down one cheek. "I do, Christopher. I really do."

"And if I can't make you happy? If one day, you wake up and think to yourself, _Why on earth did I marry this old fool?_ "

"And if one day _you_ wake up and I am old and wrinkled and have lost the bloom of youth? Or if you discover that I am more stupid than you thought, or if you get tired of my little habits? What of it? I'm not perfect, either."

"No, you aren't," he supplied by way of answer. "But I love your imperfections. I will never regret my choice in you."

She smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek, and took up the rein again. "Then, shut up, and let's ride home. And no more of this nonsense, trying to get out of marrying me. Can you just think of the uproar Mrs. Jenkins would raise? 'Oh, heavens, what a scandal!'" Marianne impersonated the older woman.

Brandon laughed. "Now, now. Be nice." After a couple of minutes riding, he said, "You just asked if we could go home."

"Yes, and we're going home."

"It just hit me, that's all. Delaford is your home now."

She paused. "Yes. It is, isn't it?"

They rode the rest of the way back lost in their own thoughts, the winter evening air cooling them off from their exercise, and Marianne changed back into her habit behind the door of the stall, leaving her new ensemble with Williston and daring him to tell anyone, including his wife, that she had worn it around the property. He and Brandon exchanged a glance, as if to say, _Women_.

As they made their way into the mansion, they heard the noise of children and realized that Eliza and Elinor had come to visit, and both had brought their babes with them. The Colonel was momentarily disarmed by the toddling girl that came to hurdle herself at his knees, and he was pulled into the parlor so he could see _her_ new baby. Marianne followed, and was instantly embraced by her sister, who was very tired, but nevertheless eager to solidify last-minute plans for tomorrow. They made their way into Marianne's chamber so that Marianne could dress for supper, and remembered the last night the two of them had shared this room.

"It seems like yesterday, doesn't it? But a full year has passed, almost. And I am a wife, and a mother."

"And are you happy, Elinor?"

Elinor smiled. "I am exhausted, and feel pulled in twelve different directions at once-being a curate's wife comes with a lot of duties, motherhood aside, and I've got Edward to contend with at the end of the day. He's a love, don't get me wrong. He's my best friend, really. But sometimes it feels as if I have two children," Elinor said, wryly. "You know he was sick last month with a cold. Lord! You'd have thought he had the plague."

"But you're happy."

"I am...the happiest I've ever been."

Marianne embraced her, suddenly, and Elinor returned the embrace. "Oh, Elinor!"

"My Marianne, my dear sister. Are you happy?"

Marianne nodded. "I think I am."

"He loves you so much. It's so good of you to marry him. He is very deserving."

"I'm-I'm not just marrying him because I'm grateful to him, you know."

"I know. But do you love him?"

"Elinor…" Marianne sat down on the bed. "I don't think I even know what love is, anymore. Willoughby…" Elinor adopted a worried expression, until Marianne finished her sentence. "Willoughby was everything I thought I needed in a love match. And now, the feelings I feel for Colonel Brandon are so strong, but they are also...different."

"Different how?"

"He doesn't make me feel as if I am floating in thin air, for one. I am quite aware of the solid ground beneath my feet."

"And is that a bad thing?"

"No...I like it. I like it a great deal, actually. But I don't trust my own feelings anymore. What I do know is...it makes me very happy to make him happy."

"Well, you should be very happy indeed." Elinor squeezed her sister's hand. "Have you seen your room yet, by the way?"

"My room?"

"The room you're to have in the family wing. I helped the Colonel pick out the draperies and the linens. I think you'll like it. Come."

Marianne had been so busy she hadn't even thought to inquire about where she'd be sleeping the next night, or all the nights hereafter. She tugged her dinner dress into place and followed Elinor down the corridor and around a corner, and then along another hallway. And Elinor opened a door.

The first thing that hit Marianne was _blue_. It was as if the room had been transformed into a seaside paradise, and everything was made of ocean and sky. Marianne had always loved best the colour of the sky after a rainstorm, and this smoky shade of blue enveloped the great big bed at the center of the room as well as the armchair and the window dressings. The wallpaper was white with a blue toile pattern, and the floors, hardwood, were covered here and there with ice-blue throw rugs. She walked over to the window and found that her view was idyllic: she'd have a perfect view of the lake in the distance, and the garden behind the house would be in full bloom for her in springtime. She realized at once that this room had once belonged to Brandon's mother, and thought with a pang of sadness how much she would have liked to meet her.

There was a mantle piece, next to a door that joined her room to the next one, on which Marianne saw a vase of fresh flowers garnered from the hothouse to the east of the mansion, and Marianne walked over to inhale their scent, so springlike in the midst of winter. As she did so, Elinor exclaimed, "Marianne, there's something on the pillow!"

Sure enough, there was an envelope sitting on the pillow in Colonel Brandon's trademark stationery, the crisp white of the envelope nearly blending in with the white of the pillowcase. Marianne's heart fluttered as she opened it, the way it had fluttered each day when she'd opened one of his letters during their six-week estrangement.

As she read, her face became more and more pale. She found when she got to the last line of the letter that she had sat down on the bed. She read it again, and a third time. Elinor, who was inspecting the washstand, also toile, glanced at her. "Is everything alright, dearest?"

Marianne got up wordlessly and made her way over to the door to the adjoining room. There was a dressing room in between, and she half-noticed the furniture that Brandon probably sat on every day, the brushes and polishes and pomades and shaving implements he touched with his strong hands, and the bright red coat, festooned with all manner of tassels and buttons, that was proudly laid out on a bench next to the floor mirror. She stepped straight into the bedroom in which he slept.

Curtains to match the ones in her room hung at the window, and a soft blue-toned Oriental rug lay in front of the fireplace where two chairs, both white with a blue pillow adorning each of them, sat in perfect reach of the warmth of the fire, a cushiony blue ottoman between them. It seemed for a moment, as she looked above and to the sides of the fireplace, to be library as well as bedroom; built-in shelves lined the one wall, and Marianne's eyes grew misty as she took in the sweet book scent she loved so much. Indeed, a small table had been set up beside one of these chairs, where an oil lamp sat next to a crumblingly old copy of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ with a pair of spectacles perched on top. But the dominant feature of the room was the bed. It was enormous, and though it had a blue blanket folded at the foot, the rest of the linens were brilliant white. It looked soft as a cloud. It looked inviting.

Marianne stood and stared at it for a while. Elinor, worried, followed her into the room, and said nothing. Then Marianne quietly closed the doors she had opened, tucked the letter into the bosom of her dress, and made her way downstairs, Elinor at her heels.

The closer they came to the parlor, the more persistent the sound of music became.

As Marianne entered, she noticed that Mrs. Jennings and Sir John were standing about, chattering loudly with her mother and younger sister, and that Lady Middleton was engrossed in stitching next to the fireplace. Eliza was holding a fussing William, trying to calm him, and Charity, alone of everyone, seemed to hear the music coming from the pianoforte, bobbing her head and clapping her hands to it from where she sat next to Christopher on the bench seat.

Marianne stood in the doorway, transfixed.

He played his fugue, no sheet music in front of him, and the only audience member he seemed to care about was Charity, whom he raised his magnificent eyebrows at each time a new voice entered into the composition, stifling a grin to see her dancing so. His hands knew what they were doing, thoughtlessly, effortlessly creating something marvelous, and the perfect technique with which he played underscored the extensive training he'd received.

Context: Marianne had never heard him play. Everyone had hinted, including himself, that he had once loved to play, but that his father had discouraged it because it wasn't a pastime befitting a gentleman. Eliza told her he sometimes played to entertain Charity. But she herself had never even bothered to ask him to play for her.

Additional context: Marianne had played herself, many times, with Willoughby singing in his cheery tenor. She had known the joys of playing for others to delight them, and had thoroughly enjoyed playing for Willoughby as well as the Colonel. She had enjoyed the sensation it gave her, she realized, to create something beautiful, and to see herself as beautiful by extension through the eyes and ears of someone else.

But never had she been knocked down like this by the beauty of someone else's creation, something she felt she ought to be sitting down for, something she felt she needed to be kneeling down for.

The muscles in his back contracted and expanded beneath his coat as he played.

His soft hair-oh, how soft and luxurious it looked-swayed and shifted on his head as he moved in time to the music.

His muscular calf pushed the pedal.

My God. This was Bach. She hated Bach!

She loved _him_.

She knew it because, suddenly, the hearth fire in her belly flamed to life.

Composing herself as Brandon finished the piece, Marianne turned around to find Elinor watching her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "Fitting," was all Elinor would say.

That night, after dinner, drinks, and saying a final good evening to the assembled party, Marianne retired early. Brandon did, too, and went up to his room not long after Marianne went to hers, and tried to calm his nervous stomach and read a little Ovid by lamplight, but gave up the ghost when he thought of tomorrow and all its probabilities and possibilities. He donned his nightshirt and slipped into bed.

Ten minutes of tossing and turning passed before he heard a light knock. He grabbed the Banyan from the foot of his bed and threw it on over his shirt, and, getting out of bed, asked, "Who is it?" No one answered.

He looked around upon opening the door, and saw no one, but noticed a letter lying on the ground at his feet. He picked it up and read it carefully in the lamplight from the hallway.

He felt his whole body erupt in chilblains. His mouth went dry. He slowly closed his door back, held the letter to his heart, and took himself back to bed, and lay there, his heart beating to the rhythm of the thoughts galloping through his head.

The note had read:

Christopher,

I must tell you at once, for it was only today that I discovered it myself:

My heart is yours. You have won it, and I surrender it to you completely. I love you.

Tomorrow night (if you still want me to) I will come to you as a wife, in your chamber. You will have to be patient with me in my ignorance, my clumsiness. But just as my heart is yours, I long for you to claim my body for your own as well.

I will see you in church tomorrow, where, God willing, I will become

Your wife,

Marianne

The end!

Look for the sequel, "How Blest I Am in This," coming soon-ish! M-rated! Wedding/wedding night/honeymoon smut!


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